THEB 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 


0*  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


THE  BIG-TOWN 
ROUND-UP 


BY 


WILLIAM  MACLEOD  RAINE 


This  book,  while  produced  under 
wartime  conditions,  in  full  com- 
pliance with  government  regula- 
tions for  theconservation  of  paper 
and  other  essential  materials,  is 
COMPLETE  AND  UNABRIDGED 


GROSS  ET 

p  u  B  L  i  s  H;E  R  s 


&    DUNLAP 

NEW   YOR  K 


in  the  United  State*  of  AJDOC» 


««"*  RIGHT,  1980,  BY  WILLIAM   MMLKOD   RAIHB 
AUL   RIGHTS    RESERVKO 


CONTENTS 

FOREWORD  1 

1.  CONCERNING  A  STREET  TWELVE  MILES  LONG     9 

II.  CLAY  APPOINTS  HIMSELF  CHAPERON  14 

HI.  THE  BIG  TOWN  26 

IV.  A  NEW  USE  FOR  A  WATER  HOSE  32 

V.  A  CONTRIBUTION  TO  THE  SALVATION  ARMY  43 

VL  CLAY  TAKES  A  TRANSFER  53 

011.  ARIZONA  FOLLOWS  ITS  LAWLESS  IMPULSE  58 

VIII.  "THE  BEST  SINGLE-BARRELED  SPORT  IVER 

I  MET"  67 

IX.  BEATRICE  UP  STAGS  72 

X.  JOHNNIE  SEES  THE  POSTMASTER  80 

XI.  JOHNNIE  GREEN  —  MATCH-MAKER  91 

XII.  CLAY  READS  AN  AD  AND  ANSWERS  rr  97 

XIII.  A  LATE  EVENING  CALL  106 

XIV.  STARRING  AS  A  SECOND-STORY  MAOV  113 
XV.  THE  GANGMAN  SEES  RED  122 

XVI.  A  FACE  IN  THE  NIGHT  126 

XVII.  JOHNNIE  MAKES  A  JOKE  132 

XVIII.  BEATRICE  GIVES  AN  OPTION  139 

XIX.  A  LADY  WEARS  A  RING  1* 


vi  CONTENTS 

XX.  THE  CAUTIOUS  GUY  SLIPS  UP  155 

XXI.  AT  THE  HEAD  OF  THE  STAIRS  166 

XXII.  Two  MEN  IN  A  LOCKED  ROOM  172 

XXIII.  JOHNNIE  COMES  INTO  HIS  OWN  182 

XXIV.  CLAY  LAYS  DOWN  THE  LAW  189 
XXV.  JOHNNIE  SAYS  HE  is  MUCH  OBLIGBD  198 

XXVI.  A  LOCKED  GATE  203 

XXVII.  "No  VIOLENCE"  212 

XXVIII.  IN  BAD  216 

XXIX.  BAD  NEWS  224 

XXX.  BEE  MAKES  A  MORNING  CALL  230 

XXXI.  INTO  THE  HANDS  OF  HIS  ENEMY  2$ 

XXXII.  MR.  LINDSAY  RECEIVES  241 

XXXIII.  BROMFIELD  MAKES  AN  OFFER  250 

XXXIV.  BEATRICE    QUALIFIES    AS    A    SHERLOCK 

HOLMES  255 

XXXV.  Two  AND  Two  MAKE  FOUR  260 

XXXVI.  A  BOOMERANG  267 

XXXVII.  ON  THE  CARPET  274 

XXXVIII.  A  CONVERSATION  ABOUT  STOCK  280 

XXXIX.  IN  CENTRAL  PARK  290 

XL.  CLAY  PLAYS  SECOND  FIDDLE  294 

XLI.  THE  NEW  DAY  SOI 


THE  BIG-TOWN  BOUND-UP 


2132415 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 


FOREWORD 

THE  driver  of  the  big  car  throttled  down.  Since  he  had 
swung  away  from  the  dusty  road  to  follow  a  wagon 
track  across  the  desert,  the  speedometer  had  registered 
many  miles.  His  eyes  searched  the  ground  in  front  to  see 
whether  the  track  led  up  the  brow  of  the  hill  or  dipped 
into  the  sandy  wash. 

On  the  breeze  there  floated  to  him  the  faint,  insistent 
bawl  of  thirsty  cattle.  The  car  leaped  forward  again, 
climbed  the  hill,  and  closed  in  upon  a  remuda  of  horses 
watched  by  two  wranglers. 

The  chauffeur  stopped  the  machine  and  shouted  a 
question  at  the  nearest  rider,  who  swung  his  mount  and 
cantered  up.  He  was  a  lean,  tanned  youth  in  overalls, 
jumper,  wide  sombrero,  high-heeled  boots,  and  shiny 
leather  chaps.  A  girl  in  the  tonneau  appraised  with 
quick,  eager  eyes  this  horseman  of  the  plains.  PerfsafK. 
she  found  him  less  picturesque  than  she  had  hoped.  He 
was  not  there  for  moving-picture  purposes.  Nothing  on 
horse  or  man  held  its  place  for  any  reason  except  util- 
ity. The  leathers  protected  the  legs  of  the  boy  from  the 
spines  of  the  cactus  and  the  thorns  of  the  mesquite,  the 
wide  flap  of  the  hat  his  face  from  the  slash  of  catclaws 
when  he  drove  headlong  through  the  brush  after  flying 
cattle.  The  steel  horn  of  the  saddle  was  built  to  check  A 


£  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

half-ton  of  belting  hill  steer -and  fling  it  instantly.  The 
rope,  the  Spanish  bit,  the  tapaderas,  all  could  justify 
their  place  in  his  equipment. 

"Where's  the  round-up?"  asked  the  driver. 

The  coffee-brown  youth  gave  a  little  lift  of  his  head 
wO  the  right.  He  was  apparently  a  man  of  few  words. 
But  his  answer  sufficed.  The  bawling  of  anxious  cattle 
was  now  loud  and  persistent. 

The  car  moved  forward  to  the  edge  of  the  mesa  and 
dropped  into  the  valley.  The  girl  in  the  back  seat  gave 
a  little  scream  of  delight.  Here  at  last  was  the  West  she 
had  read  about  in  books  and  seen  on  the  screen. 

This  was  Cattleland's  hour  of  hours.  The  parada 
grounds  were  occupied  by  two  circles  of  cattle,  each 
fenced  by  eight  or  ten  horsemen.  The  nearer  one  was  the 
beef  herd,  beyond  this  —  and  closer  to  the  mouth  of  the 
canon  from  which  they  had  all  recently  been  driven  — 
was  a  mass  of  closely  packed  cows  and  calves. 

The  automobile  swept  around  the  beef  herd  and 
drew  to  a  halt  between  it  and  the  noisier  one  beyond.  In 
a  fire  of  mesquite  wood  branding-irons  were  heating. 
Several  men  were  busy  branding  and  marking  the  calves 
dragged  to  them  from  the  herd  by  the  horsemen  who 
were  roping  the  frightened  little  blatters. 

It  was  a  day  beautiful  even  for  Arizona.  The  winey 
Jf  called  potently  to  the  youth  in  the  girl.  Such  a  sky, 
such  atmosphere,  so  much  life  and  color!  She  could  not 
sit  still  any  longer.  With  a  movement  of  her  wrist  she 
opened  the  door  and  stepped  down  from  the  car. 

A  mam  sitting  beside  the  chauffeur  tir-ned  in  his  seat. 
"You'd  better  stay  where  you  are,  honey."  He  had  an 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  8 

idea  that  this  was  not  exactly  the  scene  a  girl  of  seven- 
teen ought  to  see  at  close  range. 

"I  want  to  get  the  kinks  out  of  my  muscles,  Dad," 
the  girl  called  back.  "I'll  not  go  far." 

She  walked  along  a  ridge  that  ran  from  the  mesa  into 
the  valley  like  an  outstretched  tongue.  Her  hands  were 
in  the  pockets  of  her  fawn-colored  coat.  There  was  a 
touch  of  unstudied  jauntiness  in  the  way  the  tips  of  her 
golden  curls  escaped  from  beneath  the  little  brown 
toque  she  wore.  A  young  man  guarding  the  beef  herd 
watched  her  curiously.  She  moved  with  the  untamed, 
joyous  freedom  of  a  sun-worshiper  just  emerging  from 
the  morning  of  the  world.  Something  in  the  poise  of 
the  light,  boyish  figure  struck  a  spark  from  his  imag> 
nation. 

A  vaquero  was  cantering  toward  the  fire  with  a  calf 
in  his  wake.  Another  cowpuncher  dropped  the  loop  of 
his  lariat  on  the  ground,  gave  it  a  little  upward  twist  as 
the  calf  passed  over  it,  jerked  taut  the  riata,  and  caught 
the  animal  by  the  hind  leg.  In  a  moment  the  victim  lay 
stretched  on  the  ground.  In  the  gathering  gloom  the 
girl  could  not  quite  make  out  what  the  men  were  doing. 
To  her  sensitive  nostrils  drifted  an  acrid  odor  of  burnt 
hair  and  flesh,  the  wail  of  an  animal  in  pain.  One  of  the 
men  was  using  his  knife  on  the  ears  of  the  helpless 
creature.  She  heard  another  say  something  about  a  crop 
and  an  underbit.  Then  she  turned  away,  faint  and  indig- 
nant. Three  big  men  torturing  a  month-old  calf  —  was 
this  the  brave  outdoor  West  she  had  read  about  and 
remembered  from  her  childhood  days?  Tears  of  pity  an 
resentment  blurred  her  sight. 


As  she  stood  on  the  spit  of  the  ridge,  a  slims  light 
figure  silhouetted  against  the  skyline,  the  young  man 
guarding  the  beef  herd  called  something  to  her  that  was 
lost  in  the  bawling  of  the  cattle.  From  the  motion  of  his 
hand  she  knew  that  he  was  telling  her  to  get  back  to  the 
ear.  But  the  girl  saw  no  reason  for  obeying  the  orders  of 
a  range-rider  she  had  never  seen  before  and  never  ex- 
pected to  see  again.  Nobody  had  ever  told  her  that  a 
rider  is  fairly  safe  among  the  wildest  hill  cattle,  but  a 
man  on  foot  is  liable  to  attack  at  any  time  when  a  herd  is 
excited. 

She  turned  her  shoulder  a  little  more  definitely  to  the 
man  who  had  warned  her  and  looked  across  the  parodo 
jrcimds  to  the  hills  swimming  in  a  haze  of  violet  velvet, 
Jler  heart  throbbed  to  a  keen  delight  in  them,  as  it 
might  have  done  at  the  touch  of  a  dear  friend's  hand 
long  absent.  For  she  had  been  born  in  the  Rockies.  They 
belonged  to  her  and  she  to  them.  Long  years  in  New 
York  had  left  her  still  an  alien. 

A  shout  of  warning  startled  her.  Above  the  bellowing 
of  the  herd  she  heard  another  yell. 

"Hi-yi-ya-a!" 

A  red-eyed  steer,  tail  up,  was  crashing  through  the 
small  brush  toward  the  branders.  There  was  a  wild 
scurry  for  safety.  The  men  dropped  iron  and  ropes  and 
fled  to  their  saddles.  Deflected  by  pursuers,  the  animal 
turned.  By  chance  it  thundered  straight  for  the  girl  on 
the  sand  spit. 

She  stood  paralyzed  for  a  moment. 

Out  of  the  gathering  darkness  a  voice  came  to  her 
sharp  and  clear.  "Don't  move!"  It  rang  so  vibrant  with 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  5 

crisp  command  that  the  girl,  poised  for  flight,  stood  still 
and  waited  in  white  terror  while  the  huge  steer  lumbered 
toward  her. 

A  cowpony,  wheeled  as  on  a  dollar,  jumped  to  an 
instant  gallop.  The  man  riding  it  was  the  one  who  had 
warned  her  back  to  the  car.  Horse  and  ladino  pounded 
over  the  ground  toward  her.  Each  stride  brought  them 
closer  to  each  other  as  they  converged  toward  the  sand 
spit.  It  came  to  her  with  a  gust  of  panicky  despair  that 
they  would  collide  on  the  very  spot  where  she  stood. 
Yet  she  did  not  run. 

The  rider,  lifting  his  bronco  forward  at  full  speed,  won 
by  a  fraction  of  a  second.  He  guided  in  such  a  way  ss  tr 
bring  his  horse  between  her  and  the  steer.  The  gfe 
noticed  that  he  dropped  his  bridle  rein  and  crouched  in 
the  saddle,  his  eyes  steadily  upon  her.  Without  slacken- 
ing his  pace  in  the  least  as  he  swept  past,  the  man 
stooped  low,  caught  the  girl  beneath  the  armpits,  and 
swung  her  in  front  of  him  to  the  back  of  the  horse.  The 
steer  pounded  past  so  close  behind  that  one  of  its  horns 
grazed  the  tail  of  the  cowpony. 

It  was  a  superb  piece  of  horsemanship,  perfectly 
timed,  as  perfectly  executed. 

The  girl  lay  breathless  in  the  arms  of  the  man,  her 
heart  beating  against  his,  her  face  buried  in  his  shoulder. 
She  was  dazed,  half  fainting  from  the  reaction  of  her 
fear.  The  next  she  remembered  clearly  was  being  low- 
ered into  the  arms  of  her  father. 

He  held  her  tight,  his  face  tortured  with  emotion.  She 
was  the  very  light  of  his  soul,  and  she  had  shaved  death 
by  a  hair's  breadth.  A  miracle  had  saved  her,  b'jl:  }f 


3  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

would  never  forget  the  terror  that  had  gripped  him. 
Naturally,  shaken  as  he  was,  his  relief  found  vent  in 
scolding. 

"I  told  you  to  stay  by  the  car,  honey.  But  you're  so 
willful.  You  've  got  to  have  your  own  way.  Thank  God 
you  're  safe.  K ...  if ..."  His  voice  broke  as  he  thought 
of  what  had  so  nearly  been. 

The  girl  snuggled  closer  to  him,  her  arms  round  his 
neck.  His  anxiety  touched  her  nearly,  and  tears  flooded 
her  eyes. 

"I  know,  Dad.  I ...  I'll  be  good." 

A  young  man  descended  from  the  car,  handsome, 
trim,  and  well  got  up.  He  had  been  tailored  by  the  best 
man's  outfitter  in  New  York.  Nobody  on  Broadway 
could  order  a  dinner  better  than  he.  The  latest  dances 
he  could  do  perfectly.  He  had  the  reputation  of  knowing 
exactly  the  best  thing  to  say  on  every  occasion.  Now  he 
proceeded  to  say  it. 

"Corking  bit  of  riding  —  never  saw  better.  I'll  give 
you  my  hand  on  that,  my  man." 

The  cowpuncher  found  a  bunch  of  manicured  fingers 
%?3  his  rough  brown  paw.  He  found  something  else,  foi 
jfter  the  pink  hand  had  gone  there  remained  a  fifty 
dollar  bill.  He  looked  at  it  helplessly  for  a  moment; 
then,  beneath  the  brown  outdoor  tan,  a  flush  of  anger 
beat  into  his  face.  Without  a  word  he  leaned  forward 
and  pressed  the  note  into  the  mouth  of  the  bronco. 

The  buckskin  knew  its  master  for  a  very  good  friend. 
If  he  gave  it  something  to  eat  —  well,  there  was  no  harm 
in  trying  it  once.  The  buckskin  chewed  placidly  for  a 
few  seconds,  decided  that  this  was  a  practical  joke,  and 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  7 

ejected  from  its  mouth  a  slimy  green  pulp  that  had  re- 
cently been  a  treasury  note. 

The  father  stammered  his  thanks  to  the  rescuer  of 
the  girl.  "I  don't  know  what  I  can  ever  do  to  let  you 
know  ...  I  don't  know  how  I  can  ever  pay  you  for  sav- 
ing  .  .  ." 

"Forget  it!'*  snapped  the  brown  man  curtly.  He  was 
an  even-tempered  youth,  as  genial  and  friendly  as  a 
half -grown  pup,  but  just  now  the  word  "pay"  irritat^ 
him  as  a  re^  ~*\g  does  a  sulky  bull. 

"If  there's  anything  at  all  I  can  do  for  you  — " 

"Not  a  thing." 

The  New  Yorker  felt  that  he  was  not  expressing  him- 
self at  all  happily.  What  he  wanted  was  to  show  this 
young  fellow  that  he  had  put  him  under  a  lifelong  obliga- 
tion he  could  never  hope  to  wipe  out. 

"If  you  ever  come  to  New  York — " 

"I'm  not  liable  to  go  there.  I  don't  belong  there  any 
more  than  you  do  here.  Better  drift  back  to  Tucson, 
stranger.  The  parada  is  no  place  for  a  tenderfoot.  You  're 
in  luck  you're  not  shy  one  liT  girl  tromped  to  death, 
Take  a  fool's  advice  and  hit  the  trail  for  town  pronto 
before  you  bump  into  more  trouble." 

The  rider  swung  round  his  pony  and  cantered  back  to 
the  beef  herd. 

He  left  behind  him  a  much-annoyed  clubman,  a  per- 
plexed and  distressed  father,  and  a  girl  both  hurt 
indignant  at  his  brusque  rejection  of  her  father's 
advances.  The  episode  of  the  fifty-dollar  bill  had  taken 
place  entirely  under  cover.  The  man  who  had  given  the 
note  and  the  one  who  had  refused  to  accept  it  were  the 


ft  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

only  ones  who  knew  of  it.  The  girl  saw  only  that  this 
splendid  horseman  who  had  snatched  her  from  under 
the  very  feet  of  the  ladino  had  shown  a  boorish  dis- 
courtesy. The  savor  had  gone  out  of  her  adventure.  Her 
heart  was  sick  with  disappointment  and  indignation. 


CHAPTER  I 
CONCERNING  A  STREET  TWELVE  MILES  LONG 

"I  LIKE  yore  outfit,"  Red  Hollister  grumbled.  "You're 
nice  boys,  and  good  to  yore  mothers  —  what  few  of  you 
ain't  wore  their  gray  hairs  to  the  grave  with  yore  frolic- 
some ways.  You  know  yore  business  and  you  got  a  good 
cook.  But  I'm  darned  if  I  like  this  thing  of  two  meals  a 
day,  one  at  a  quarter  to  twelve  at  night  and  the  other  a 
quarter  past  twelve,  also  and  likewise  at  night." 

A  tenderfoot  might  have  thought  that  Hollister  had 
some  grounds  for  complaint.  For  weeks  he  had  been 
crawling  out  of  his  blankets  in  the  pre-dawn  darkness 
of  3  A.M.  He  had  sat  shivering  down  beside  a  camp-fire 
to  swallow  a  hurried  breakfast  and  had  swung  into  the 
saddle  while  night  was  still  heavy  over  the  land.  He  had 
ridden  after  cattle  wild  as  deer  and  had  wrestled  with 
ladino  steers  till  long  after  the  stars  were  up.  In  the  chill 
night  he  had  eaten  another  meal,  rolled  up  in  his  blankets, 
and  fallen  into  instant  heavy  sleep.  And  five  minutes 
later  —  or  so  at  least  it  seemed  to  him  —  the  cook  had 
pounded  on  the  triangle  for  him  to  get  up. 

None  the  less  Red's  grumbling  was  a  pretense.  He 
would  not  have  been  anywhere  else  for  twice  the  pay. 
This  was  what  he  lived  for. 

Johnnie  Green,  commonly  known  as  "the  Runt,** 
helped  himself  to  another  flank  steak.  He  was  not  much 
of  a  cow-hand,  but  when  it  came  to  eating  Johnnie  was 
always  conscientiously  on  the  job. 


10  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"These  here  New  Yorkers  must  be  awful  hardy,*5  he 
ventured,  apropos  of  nothing.  "  Seems  like  they  're  night 
birds  for  fair.  Never  do  go  to  bed,  far  as  I  can  make 
out.  They  tromp  the  streets  all  day  and  dance  at  them 
cabby-rets  all  night.  My  feet  would  be  all  wore  out." 

Stace  Wallis  grinned.  "So  would  my  poeketbook. 
I  Ve  heard  tell  how  a  fellow  can  pay  as  high  as  four  or 
five  dollars  for  an  eat  at  them  places.'* 

"Nothin'  to  it  —  nothin'  a- tall/'  pronounced  Red 
dogmatically.  Hollister  always  knew  everything.  Noth- 
ing in  the  heavens  above  or  the  earth  below  could  stump 
him.  The  only  trouble  with  his  knowledge  was  that  he 
knew  so  much  that  was  n't  true.  "  Can't  be  did.  Do  you 
reckon  any  o'  them  New  Yorkers  could  get  away  with 
five  dollars'  worth  of  ham  and  aigs?  Why,  the  Runt  here 
could  n't  eat  more'n  a  dollar's  worth." 

"Sure,"  assented  Johnnie.  It  was  the  habit  of  his  life 
to  agree  with  the  last  speaker.  "You're  damn  whistlin', 
Red.  Why,  at  the  Harvey  House  they  only  charge  a 
dollar  for  a  square,  and  a  man  could  n't  get  a  better 
meal  than  that." 

"Onct  in  Denver,  when  I  went  to  the  stock  show,  I 
blowed  myself  for  a  meal  at  the  Cambridge  Hotel  that 
set  me  back  one-fifty,"  said  Slim  Leroy  reminiscently. 
"  They  et  dinner  at  night." 

"They  did?"  scoffed  Johnnie.  "Don't  they  know  a 
fellow  eats  dinner  at  noon  and  supper  at  night?" 

"I  ain't  noticed  any  dinner  at  noon  for  se-ve-real 
weeks,"  Hollister  contributed. 

•*•   "Some  feed  that,"  ruminated  Leroy,  with  memories 
of  the  Cambridge  Hotel  still  to  the  fore. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  11 

"With  or  without?"  questioned  Red. 

"I  reckon  I  had  one  liT  drink  with  it.  No  more." 

"Then  they  stung  you,"  pronounced  Hollister. 

"Mebbeso,  and  mebbe  not.  I  ain't  kickin'  none.  I  sure 
was  in  tony  society.  There  was  fellows  sittin'  at  a  table 
near  us  that  had  on  them  swallow-tail  coats." 

Johnnie  ventured  a  suggestion.  "  Don't  you  reckon  if  a 
fellow  et  a  couple  o'  plates  of  this  here  cavi-eer  stuff  and 
some  ice  cream  and  cake,  he  might  run  it  up  to  twc 
bucks  or  two  and  a  half?  Don't  you  reckon  he  might* 
Clay?" 

Clay  Lindsay  laughed.  "You  boys  know  a  lot  about 
New  York,  just  about  as  much  as  I  do.  I  've  read  that  a 
guy  can  drop  a  hundred  dollars  a  night  in  a  cabaret  if  he 
has  a  friend  or  two  along,  and  never  make  a  ripple  on 
Broadway." 

"Does  that  look  reasonable  to  you,  Clay?"  argued 
Red.  "We're  not  talkin'  about  buckin*  the  tiger  or 
buyin'  diamonds  for  no  actresses.  We're  figurin'  on  a 
guy  goin'  out  with  some  friends  to  eat  and  take  a  few 
drinks  and  have  a  good  time.  How  could  he  spend  fifty 
dollars  —  let  alone  a  hundred  —  if  he  let  the  skirts  and 
the  wheel  alone  and  didn't  tamper  with  no  straight 
flushes?  " 

"I'm  tellin*  you  what  I  read.  Take  it  or  leave  it," 
said  Clay  amiably. 

"Well,  I  read  there's  a  street  there  twelve  miles  long. 
If  a  fellow  started  at  one  end  of  that  street  with  a  thirst 
he'd  sure  be  salivated  before  he  reached  the  other  end 
of  it,"  Stace  said  with  a  grin. 

"Wonder  if  a  fellow  could  get  a  job  there.  They 


12  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

would  n't  have  no  use  for  a  puncher,  I  reckon,"  Slim 
drawled. 

"Betcha  Clay  could  get  a  job  all  right,"  answered 
Johnnie  Green  promptly.  "He'd  be  top  hand  anywhere, 
Clay  would." 

Johnnie  was  the  lost  dog  of  the  B-in-a-Box  ranch.  It 
was  his  nature  to  follow  somebody  and  lick  his  hand 
whenever  it  was  permitted.  The  somebody  he  followed 
was  Clay  Lindsay.  Johnnie  was  his  slave,  the  echo  of 
his  opinions,  the  booster  of  his  merits.  He  asked  no 
greater  happiness  than  to  trail  in  the  wake  of  his  friend 
and  get  a  kind  word  occasionally. 

The  Runt  had  chosen  as  his  Admirable  Crichton  a 
most  engaging  youth.  It  never  had  been  hard  for  any 
girl  to  look  at  Clay  Lindsay.  His  sun-tanned,  good 
looks,  the  warmth  of  his  gay  smile,  the  poise  and  the 
easy  stride  of  him,  made  Lindsay  a  marked  man  even  in 
a  country  where  men  of  splendid  physique  were  no  ex- 
ception. 

"I  'd  take  a  liT  bet  that  New  York  ain't  lookin'  for  no 
champeen  ropers  or  bronco-busters,"  said  Stace.  "Now 
if  Clay  was  a  cabby-ret  dancer  or  a  Wall  Street  wolf  —  " 

"There's  no  street  in  the  world  twelve  miles  long 
where  Clay  could  n't  run  down  and  hogtie  a  job  if  he 
wanted  to,"  insisted  Johnnie  loyally.  "Ain't  that  right, 
Clay?" 

Clay  was  not  listening.  His  eyes  were  watching  the 
leap  of  the  fire  glow.  The  talk  of  New  York  had  carried 
him  back  to  a  night  on  the  round-up  three  years  before. 
He  was  thinking  about  a  slim  girl  standing  on  a  sand 
spit  with  a  wild  steer  rushing  toward  her,  of  her  warm, 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  13 

slender  body  lying  in  his  arms  for  five  immortal  seconds, 
of  her  dark,  shy  eyes  shining  out  of  the  dusk  at  him  like 
live  coals.  He  remembered  —  and  it  hurt  him  to  recall 
it  —  how  his  wounded  pride  had  lashed  out  in  resent- 
ment of  the  patronage  of  these  New  Yorkers.  The 
younger  man  had  insulted  him,  but  he  knew  in  his  heart 
now  that  the  girl's  father  had  'meant  nothing  of  the 
kind.  Of  course  the  girl  had  forgotten  him  long  since.  If 
he  ever  came  to  her  mind  as  a  fugitive  memory  it  would 
be  in  the  guise  of  a  churlish  boor  as  impossible  as  his  own 
hill  cattle. 

"Question  is,  could  you  land  a  job  in  New  York  if  you 
wanted  one,"  explained  Stace  to  the  dreamer. 

"If  it's  neck  meat  or  nothin'  a  fellow  can  'most  al- 
ways get  somethin'  to  do,"  said  Lindsay  in  the  gentle 
voice  he  used.  The  vague  impulses  of  many  days  crys- 
tallized suddenly  into  a  resolution.  "Anyhow  I'm  goin' 
to  try.  Soon  as  the  rodeo  is  over  I  'm  goin'  to  hit  the  trail 
for  the  big  town." 

"Tucson?"  interpreted  Johnnie  dubiously. 

"New  York." 

The  bow-legged  little  puncher  looked  at  his  friend  and 
gasped.  Denver  was  the  limit  of  Johnnie's  imagination. 
New  York  was  tern  incognita,  inhabited  by  a  species 
who  were  as  foreign  to  him  as  if  they  had  dwelt  in  Mars. 

"You  ain't  really  aimin'  to  go  to  New  York  sure 
enough?  "  he  asked. 

Clay  flashed  on  him  the  warm  smile  that  endeared 
him  to  all  his  friends.  "  I  'm  goin'  to  ride  down  Broadway 
and  shoot  up  the  town,  Johnnie.  Want  to  come  along?*' 


CHAPTER  H 
CLAY  APPOINTS  HIMSELF  CHAPERON 

Aa  he  traveled  east  Clay  began  to  slough  the  outward 
marks  of  his  calling.  He  gave  his  spurs  to  Johnnie  before 
he  left  the  ranch.  At  Tucson  he  shed  his  chaps  and  left 
them  in  care  of  a  friend  at  the  Longhora  Corral.  The  six- 
gun  with  which  he  had  shot  rattlesnakes  he  packed  into 
his  suitcase  at  El  Paso.  His  wide-rimmed  felt  hat  flew  off 
while  the  head  beneath  it  was  stuck  out  of  a  window  of 
the  coach  somewhere  south  of  Denver.  Before  he  passed 
under  the  Welcome  Arch  in  that  city  the  silk  kerchief 
had  been  removed  from  his  brown  neck  and  retired  to 
the  hip  pocket  which  formerly  held  his  forty-five. 

The  young  cattleman  began  to  flatter  himself  that 
nobody  could  now  tell  he  was  a  wild  man  from  the  hills 
who  had  never  been  curried.  He  might  have  spared  him- 
self the  illusion.  Everybody  he  met  knew  that  this 
clean-cut  young  athlete,  with  the  heavy  coat  of  tan  on 
his  good-looking  face,  was  a  product  of  the  open  range. 
The  lightness  of  his  stride,  the  breadth  of  the  well- 
packed  shoulders,  the  frankness  of  the  steady  eyes,  all 
advertised  him  a  son  of  Arizona. 

It  was  just  before  noon  at  one  of  the  small  plains 
tovms  east  of  Denver  that  a  girl  got  on  the  train  and  was 
taken  by  the  porter  to  a  section  back  of  Clay  Lindsay. 
The  man  from  Arizona  noticed  that  she  was  refreshingly 
pretty  in  an  unsophisticated  way. 

A  little  later  he  had  a  chance  to  confirm  this  judg» 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  15 

ment,  for  the  dining-car  manager  seated  her  opposite 
him  at  a  table  for  two.  When  Clay  handed  her  the  menu 
card  she  murmured  "Thank  you!"  with  a  rush  of  color 
to  her  cheeks  and  looked  helplessly  at  the  list  in  her 
hand,  Quite  plainly  she  was  taking  her  first  long  journey. 

"Do  I  have  to  order  everything  that  is  here?"  she 
presently  asked  shyly  after  a  tentative  and  furtive 
glance  at  her  table  companion. 

Clay  felt  no  inclination  to  smile  at  her  naivete.  He  was 
not  very  much  more  experienced  than  she  was  in  such 
things,  but  his  ignorance  of  forms  never  embarrassed 
him.  They  were  details  that  seemed  to  him  to  have  no 
importance. 

The  cowpuncher  helped  her  fill  the  order  card.  She 
put  herself  entirely  in  his  hands  and  was  willing  to  eat 
whatever  he  suggested  unbiased  by  preferences  of  her 
own.  He  included  chicken  salad  and  ice  cream.  From  the 
justice  she  did  her  lunch  he  concluded  that  his  choice 
had  been  a  wise  one. 

She  was  a  round,  soft,  little  person  with  constant 
intimations  of  a  childhood  not  long  outgrown.  Dimples 
ran  in  and  out  her  pink  cheeks  at  the  slightest  excuse. 
The  blue  eyes  were  innocently  wide  and  the  Cupid's-bow 
mouth  invitingly  sweet.  The  girl  from  Brush,  Colorado, 
was  about  as  worldly-wise  as  a  plump,  cooing  infant  or  a 
3uffy  kitten,  and  instinctively  the  eye  caressed  her  with 
the  same  tenderness. 

During  the  course  of  lunch  she  confided  that  her  name 
was  Kitty  Mason,  that  she  was  an  orphan,  and  that  she 
was  on  her  way  to  New  York  to  study  at  a  school  for 
moving-picture  actresses. 


1C  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"I  sent  my  photograph  and  the  manager  wrote  back 
that  ray  face  was  one  hundred  per  cent  perfect  for  the 
movies,"  the  girl  explained. 

It  was  clear  that  she  was  expecting  to  be  manufac- 
tured into  a  film  star  in  a  week  or  two.  Clay  doubted 
whether  the  process  was  quite  so  easy,  even  with  a  young 
woman  who  bloomed  in  the  diner  like  a  rose  of  the  desert. 

After  they  had  finished  eating,  the  range-rider  turned 
in  at  the  smoking  compartment  and  enjoyed  a  cigar.  He 
fell  into  casual  talk  with  an  army  officer  who  had  served 
in  the  Southwest,  and  it  was  three  hours  later  when  he 
returned  to  his  own  seat  in  the  car. 

A  hard-faced  man  in  a  suit  of  checks  more  than  a 
shade  too  loud  was  sitting  in  the  section  beside  the  girl 
from  Brush.  He  was  making  talk  in  an  assured,  familiar 
way,  and  the  girl  was  listening  to  him  shyly  and  yet 
eagerly.  The  man  was  a  variation  of  a  type  known  to 
Lindsay.  That  type  was  the  Arizona  bad-man.  If  this 
expensively  dressed  fellow  was  not  the  Eastern  equiva- 
lent of  the  Western  gunman,  Clay's  experience  was 
badly  at  fault.  The  fishy,  expressionless  eyes,  the  color- 
less face,  the  tight-lipped  jaw,  expressed  a  sinister  per- 
sonality and  a  dangerous  one.  Just  now  a  suave  good- 
humor  veiled  the  evil  of  him,  but  the  cowpuncher  knew 
him  for  a  wolf  none  the  less. 

Clay  had  already  made  friends  with  the  Pullman  con- 
ductor. He  drifted  to  him  now  on  the  search  for  informa 
tion. 

"The  hard-faced  guy  with  the  little  girl?"  he  asked 
casually  after  the  proffer  of  a  cigar.  "The  one  with  the 
muscles  bulging  out  all  over  him  —  who  is  be?  " 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  17 

"He  comes  by  that  tough  mug  honestly.  That's  Jeny 
Durand." 

"The  prize-fighter?" 

"Yep.  Used  to  be.  He's  a  gang  leader  in  New  York 
now.  On  his  way  back  from  the  big  fight  in  'Frisco." 

"He  was  some  scrapper,"  admitted  the  range-rider. 
"Almost  won  the  championship  once,  did  n't  he?" 

"Lost  on  a  foul.  He  always  was  a  dirty  fighter.  I  saw 
him  the  time  he  knocked  out  Reddy  Moran." 

"What  do  you  mean  gang  leader?" 

"He 's  boss  of  his  district,  they  say.  Runs  a  gambling- 
house  of  his  own,  I've  heard.  You  can't  prove  it  by  me." 

When  Lindsay  returned  to  his  place  he  settled  himself 
with  a  magazine  in  a  seat  where  hp  could  see  Kitty  and 
her  new  friend.  The  very  vitality  of  the  girl's  young  life 
was  no  doubt  a  temptation  to  this  man.  The  soft, 
rounded  throat  line,  the  oval  cheek's  rich  coloring  so 
easily  moved  to  ebb  and  flow,  the  carmine  of  the  full  red 
lips:  every  detail  helped  to  confirm  the  impression  of  a 
sensuous  young  creature,  innocent  as  a  wild  thing  of  the 
forests  and  as  yet  almost  as  unspiritual.  She  was  a  child 
of  the  senses,  and  the  man  sitting  beside  her  was  weigh' 
ing  and  appraising  her  with  a  keen  and  hungry  avidity. 

Durand  took  the  girl  in  to  dinner  with  him  and  they 
sat  not  far  from  Lindsay.  Kitty  was  lost  to  any  memory 
of  those  about  her.  She  was  flirting  joyously  with  a  sense 
of  newly  awakened  powers.  The  man  from  Graham 
County,  Arizona,  felt  uneasy  in  his  mind.  The  girl  was 
flushed  with  life.  In  a  way  she  was  celebrating  her  escape 
from  the  narrow  horizon  in  which  she  had  lived.  It  was 
in  the  horoscope  of  her  temperament  to  run  forward 


18  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

gayly  to  meet  adventure,  but  when  the  man  opposite 
her  ordered  wine  and  she  sipped  it  reluctantly  with  a 
little  grimace,  the  cowpunclier  was  of  opinion  that  she 
was  likely  to  get  more  of  this  adventure  than  was  good 
for  her.  In  her  unsophistication  danger  lay.  For  she  was 
plainly  easily  influenced,  and  in  the  beat  of  her  healthy 
young  blood  probably  there  was  latent  passion. 

They  left  the  diner  before  Clay.  He  passed  them  later 
hi  the  vestibule  of  the  sleeper.,  They  were  looking  out 
together  on  the  moonlit  plain  through  which  the  train 
was  rushing.  The  arm  of  the  man  was  stretched  behind 
her  to  the  railing  and  with  the  motion  of  the  car  the  girl 
swayed  back  slightly  against  him. 

Again  Clay  sought  the  smoking  compartment  and  was 
led  into  talk  by  the  officer.  It  was  well  past  eleven  when 
he  rose,  yawned,  and  announced,  "I'm  goin'  to  hit  the 
hay." 

Most  of  the  berths  were  made  up  and  it  was  with  a  lit- 
tle shock  of  surprise  that  his  eyes  fell  on  Kitty  Mason 
and  her  new  friend,  the  sleek  black  head  of  the  man 
close  to  her  fair  curls,  his  steady  eyes  holding  her  like  a 
dbarmed  bird  while  his  caressing  voice  wove  the  fairy 
tale  of  New' York  to  which  she  yielded  herself  in  strange 
delight. 

"Don't  you-all  want  yo'  berth  made  up,  lady?" 

It  was  the  impatient  porter  who  interrupted  them. 
The  girl  sprang  up  tremulously  to  accept. 

"Oh,  please.  Is  it  late?"  Her  glance  swept  down  the 
car  and  took  in  the  fact  that  her  section  alone  was 
not  made  up.  "  I  did  n't  know  —  why,  what  tune  Is 
it?" 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  if 

"Most  twelve,  ma'am,"  replied  the  aggrieved  porter 
severely. 

She  flashed  a  look  of  reproach  at  her  companion  and 
blushed  again  as  she  fled  with  her  bag  to  the  ladies' 
dressing-room.  As  for  the  man,  Lindsay  presently  came 
on  him  in  the  smoking-room  where  he  sat  with  an  unlit 
cigar  between  his  teeth  and  his  feet  on  a  chair.  Behind 
half -shuttered  lids  his  opaque  eyes  glittered  with  excite- 
ment. Clearly  he  was  reviewing  in  his  mind  the  pro- 
gression of  his  triumph.  Clay  restrained  a  good,  healthy 
impulse  to  pick  a  row  with  him  and  go  to  the  mat  with 
the  ex-prize-fighter.  But  after  all  it  was  none  of  his 
business. 

The  train  was  rolling  through  the  cornfields  of  the 
Middle  West  when  the  Arizonan  awoke.  He  was  up 
early,  but  not  long  before  Kitty  Mason,  who  was  joined 
at  once  by  Durand. 

"Shucks!  Nothin*  to  it  a-tall,"  the  range-rider  as- 
sured himself.  "That  UT  girl  sure  must  have  the  num- 
ber of  this  guy.  She's  flirtin'  with  him  to  beat  three 
of  a  kind,  but  I'll  bet  a  dogie  she  knows  right  where 
she's  at." 

Clay  did  not  in  the  least  believe  his  own  argument.  If 
he  had  come  from  a  city  he  would  have  dismissed  the 
matter  as  none  of  his  business.  But  he  came  from  the 
clean  Southwest  where  every  straight  girl  is  under  the 
protection  of  every  decent  man.  If  she  was  in  danger 
because  of  her  innocence  it  was  up  to  him  to  look  aftei 
her.  There  was  no  more  competent  man  in  Graham 
County  than  Clay  Lindsay,  but  he  recognized  that  this 
was  a  delicate  affair  in  which  he  must  move  warily. 


90  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

On  his  way  to  the  diner  at  noon  the  range-rider  passed 
her  again.  She  was  alone  for  the  moment  and  as  she 
leaned  back  her  soft  round  throat  showed  a  beating 
pulse.  Her  cheeks  were  burning  and  her  starry  eyes  were 
looking  into  the  future  with  a  happy  smile. 

"You  pore  little  maverick,"  the  man  commented  si- 
lently. 

The  two  had  the  table  opposite  him.  As  the  wheels 
raced  over  a  culvert  to  the  comparative  quiet  of  the 
ballasted  track  beyond,  the  words  of  the  man  reached 
Clay. 

"...  and  we'll  have  all  day  to  see  the  city,  kid." 

Kitty  shook  her  head.  There  was  hesitation  in  her 
manner,  and  the  man  was  quick  to  make  the  most  of  it. 
She  wanted  to  stay,  wanted  to  skip  a  train  and  let  this 
competent  guide  show  her  Chicago.  But  somewhere, 
deep  in  her  consciousness,  a  bell  of  warning  was  begin- 
ning to  ring.  Some  uneasy  prescience  of  trouble  was 
sifting  into  her  light  heart.  She  was  not  so  sure  of  her 
fairy  tale,  a  good  deal  less  sure  of  her  prince. 

A  second  time  the  song  of  the  rails  lifted  from  a  heavy, 
rumbling  bass  to  a  lighter  note,  and  again  a  snatch  of 
words  drifted  across  the  diner. 

"...  the  time  of  your  young  life,  honey." 

The  girl  was  crumbling  a  bread  ball  with  her  fingers  as 
a  vent  to  her  restless  excitement.  The  heavy  hand  of  the 
man  moved  across  the  table  and  rested  on  hers.  "And  it 
won't  cost  you  a  cent,  girlie,"  the  New  Yorker  added. 

But  the  long  lashes  of  the  girl  lifted  and  her  baby-blue 
eyes  met  his  with  shy  reproach.  "I  don't  think  I  ought," 
she  breathed,  color  sweeping  her  face  in  a  vivid  flame 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUNIMJP  «l 

"You  should  worry,"  he  scoffed. 

The  chant  of  the  wheels  rose  again,  increased  to  a  dull 
roar,  and  deadened  the  sound  of  all  talk.  But  Lindsay 
knew  the  girl  was  weakening.  She  was  no  match  for  this 
big,  dominant,  two-fisted  man. 

The  jaw  cf  the  cowpuncher  set.  This  child  was  not 
fair  game  for  a  man  like  Durand.  When  Clay  rose  to 
leave  the  diner  he  knew  that  he  meant  to  sit  in  and  take 
a  hand. 

Either  the  Limited  was  ahead  of  its  time  schedule  or 
the  engineer  had  orders  to  run  into  the  city  very  slowly. 
The  train  was  creeping  through  the  thickly  settled 
quarter  where  the  poorer  people  are  herded  when  Clay 
touched  Durand  on  the  shoulder. 

"Like  to  see  you  a  moment  in  the  vestibule,"  he  said 
in  his  gentle  voice. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  and  the  gambler  knew  at 
once  that  this  man  and  he  were  destined  to  be  enemies. 
Some  sixth  sense  of  safety,  cultivated  by  a  lifetime  of 
battle,  flashed  him  sure  warning  of  this.  The  fellow  meant 
to  make  trouble  of  some  kind.  The  former  near-champion 
of  the  ring  had  not  the  least  idea  what  about  or  in  what 
way.  Nor  did  he  greatly  care.  He  had  supreme  confidence 
in  his  ability  to  look  after  himself.  It  was  one  factor  of 
the  stock  in  trade  that  had  made  him  a  dominant  figure 
in  the  underworld  of  New  York.  He  was  vain  enough  to 
think  that  if  it  came  to  the  worst  there  were  few  men 
living  who  could  best  him  in  a  rough-and-tumble  fight. 
Certainly  no  hill-billy  from  Arizona  could  do  it. 

No  man  had  ever  said  that  Jerry  Durand  was  not 
game.  He  rose  promptly  and  followed  the  Westerner 


28  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

from  the  car,  swinging  along  with  the  light,  catlike 
tread  acquired  by  many  pugilists. 

The  floor  of  the  vestibule  had  been  raised  and  the 
outer  door  of  the  car  opened.  Durand  found  time  to 
wonder  why. 

The  cowpuncher  turned  on  him  with  an  abrupt  ques- 
tion. "Can  you  swim?" 

The  eyes  of  the  ward  boss  narrowed.  "What's  that  to 
you?"  he  demanded  truculently. 

"Nothin'  to  me,  but  a  good  deal  to  you.  I'm  aimin*  to 
drop  you  in  the  river  when  we  cross." 

"Is  that  so?"  snarled  Durand.  "You're  quite  a 
joker,  ain't  you?  Well,  you  can't  start  somethin'  too 
soon  to  suit  me.  But  let's  get  this  clear  so  we'll  know 
where  we're  at.  What's  ailin'  you,  rube?" 

"I  don't  like  the  color  of  yore  hair  or  the  cut  of  yore 
clothes,"  drawled  Lindsay.  "You've  got  a  sure-enough 
bad  eye,  and  I'm  tired  of  travelin'  in  yore  company. 
Let's  get  off,  me  or  you  one." 

In  the  slitted  eyes  of  the  Bowery  graduate  there  was 
no  heat  at  all.  They  were  bleak  as  a  heavy  winter  morn. 
"Suits  me  fine.  You'll  not  travel  with  me  much  farther. 
Here's  where  you  beat  the  place." 

The  professional  lashed  out  suddenly  with  his  left.  But 
Clay  was  not  at  the  receiving  end  of  the  blow.  Always 
quick  as  chain  lightning,  he  had  ducked  and  clinched. 
His  steel-muscled  arms  tightened  about  the  waist  of  the 
other.  A  short-arm  jolt  to  the  cheek  he  disregarded. 

Before  Durand  had  set  himself  to  meet  the  plunge  he 
found  himself  flying  through  space.  The  gambler  caught 
at  the  rail,  missed  it,  landed  on  the  cinders  beside  the 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUNi>-UP  *3 

roadbed,  was  flung  instantly  from  bis  feet,  and  rolled 
over  and  over  down  an  incline  to  a  muddy  gully. 

Clay,  hanging  to  the  brass  railing,  leaned  out  and 
looked  back.  Durand  had  staggered  to  his  feet,  plastered 
with  mud  from  head  to  knees,  and  was  shaking  furiously 
a  fist  at  him.  The  face  of  the  man  was  venomous  with, 
rage. 

The  cowpuncher  waved  a  debonair  hand  and  mounted 
the  steps  again,  The  porter  was  standing  in  the  vestibule 
looking  at  him  with  amazement. 

"You  thro  wed  a  man  off'n  this  train,  mistah,"  he 
charged. 

"So  I  did,"  admitted  Clay,  and  to  save  his  life  he 
could  not  keep  from  smiling. 

The  porter  sputtered.  This  beat  anything  in  his 
previous  experience.  "But  —  but  —  it  ain't  allowed  to 
open  up  the  cah.  Was  you-all  havin'  trouble?" 

"No  trouble  a-tall.  He  bet  me  a  cigar  I  could  n't  put 
him  off." 

Clay  palmed  a  dollar  and  handed  it  to  the  porter  as  he 
passed  into  the  car.  The  eyes  of  that  outraged  official 
rolled  after  him.  The  book  of  rules  did  not  say  anything 
about  wrestling-matches  in  the  vestibule.  Besides,  it 
happened  that  Durand  had  called  him  down  sharply  not 
an  hour  before.  He  decided  to  brush  off  his  passengers 
and  forget  what  he  had  seen. 

Clay  stopped  in  front  of  Kitty  and  said  he  hoped  she 
would  have  no  trouble  making  her  transfer  hi  the  city. 
The  girl  was  no  fool.  She  had  sensed  the  antagonism 
that  had  flared  up  between  them  in  that  moment  when 
they  had  faced  each  other  tive  minutes  before. 


£4  THE  BT.G-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Where's  Mr.  Durand?"  she  asked. 

"He  got  off." 

"But  the  train  has  n't  stopped.'* 

"It's  just  crawlin'  along,  and  he  was  in  a  hurry." 

Her  gaze  rested  upon  an  angry  bruise  on  his  cheek.  It 
had  not  been  there  when  last  she  saw  him.  Slie  started  to 
speak,  then  changed  her  niind. 

Clay  seated  himself  beside  her.  "Chicago  is  a  right 
big  town,  1  reckon.  If  I  can  help  you  any,  Miss  Kitty, 
I'd  be  glad  to  do  what  I  can." 

The  girl  did  not  answer.  She  was  trying  to  work  out 
this  puzzle  of  why  a  man  should  get  off  before  the  train 
reached  the  station. 

"I'm  a  stranger  myself,  but  I  expect  I  can  worry 
along  somehow,"  he  went  on  cheerfully. 

"Mr.  Durand  did  n't  say  anything  to  me  about  get- 
ting off,"  she  persisted. 

"  He  made  up  his  mind  in  a  hurry.  Jus*,  took  a  sudden 
notion  to  go." 

"  Without  saying  anything  about  his  suitcases?  '* 

"Never  mentioned  'em." 

"You  didn't  have  —  any  trouble  with  him?"  she 
faltered. 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  told  her  genially.  "Sorry  our  tickets 
take  us  by  different  roads  to  New  York.  Maybe  we'll 
meet  up  with  each  other  there,  Miss  Kitty." 

"I  don't  understand  it,"  she  murmured,  half  to 
herself.  "Why  would  he  get  off  before  we  reach  the 
depot?0 

She  was  full  of  suspicions,  and  the  bruise  on  the 
Westerner's  cheek  did  not  tend  to  ailay  them.  They  were 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  25 

still  unsatisfied  when  the  porter  took  her  to  the  end  of 
the  car  to  brush  her  clothes. 

The  discretion  of  that  young  man  had  its  limits. 
While  he  brushed  the  girl  he  told  her  rapidly  what  he 
had  seen  in  the  vestibule. 

"Was  he  hurt?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"No  'm.  I  looked  out  and  seen  him  standin'  beside  the 
track  jes'  a-cussin'  a  blue  streak.  He's  a  sho-'nough  bad 
Actor,  that  Jerry  Durand." 

Kitty  marched  straight  to  her  section.  The  eyes  of  the 
girl  flashed  anger. 

"Please  leave  my  seat,  sir,J>  she  told  Clay. 

The  Arizonan  rose  at  once.  He  knew  that  she  knew. 
"I  was  mtendin'  to  help  you  off  with  yore  grips,"  he 
•aid. 

She  flamed  into  passionate  resentment  of  his  intei* 
ference.  "I'll  attend  to  them.  I  csn  look  out  for  myself* 
sir." 

With  that  she  turned  her  back  on  him. 


CHAPTER  ffl 
THE  BIG  TOWN 

WHEN  Clay  stepped  from  the  express  into  the  PennsyV 
vania  Station  he  wondered  for  a  moment  if  there  was  a 
circus  or  a  frontier-day  show  in  town.  The  shouts  of  the 
porters,  the  rush  of  men  and  women  toward  the  gates, 
the  whirl  and  eddy  of  a  vast  life  all  about  him,  took  him 
back  to  the  few  hours  he  had  spent  in  Chicago. 

As  he  emerged  at  the  Thirty-Fourth  Street  entrance 
New  York  burst  upon  him  with  what  seemed  almost  a 
threat.  He  could  hear  the  roar  of  it  like  a  river  rushing 
down  a  canon.  Clay  had  faced  a  cattle  stampede.  He  had 
ridden  out  a  blizzard  hunched  ap  with  the  drifting  herd. 
He  had  lived  rough  all  his  young  and  joyous  life.  But  for 
a  moment  he  felt  a  chill  drench  at  his  heart  that  was 
almost  dread.  He  did  not  know  a  soul  in  this  vast  popu- 
lace. He  was  alone  among  seven  or  eight  million  crazy 
human  beings. 

He  had  checked  his  suitcase  to  be  free  to  look  about. 
He  had  no  destination  and  was  in  no  hurry.  A!l  the  day 
was  before  him,  all  of  many  days.  He  drifted  down  the 
street  and  across  to  Sixth  Avenue.  He  clung  to  the 
safety  of  one  of  the  L  posts  as  the  traffic  surged  past. 
The  clang  of  surface  cars  and  the  throb  of  motors  filled 
the  air  constantly.  He  wondered  at  the  daring  of  a  pink- 
cheeked  slip  of  a  girl  driving  an  automobile  with  sure 
touch  through  all  this  tangle  of  traffic.  While  he  waited 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  S7 

to  plunge  across  the  street  there  came  a  roar  overhead 
that  reminded  him  again  of  a  wall  of  water  he  had  once 
heard  tearing  down  a  canon  in  his  home  land. 

Instinctively  one  arm  clutched  at  the  post.  A  monster 
went  flying  through  the  air  with  a  horrible,  grinding 
menace.  It  was  only  the  Elevated  on  its  way  uptown. 
Clay  looked  around  in  whimsical  admiration  of  the 
hurrying  people  about  him.  None  of  them  seemed  aware 
either  of  the  noise  or  the  crush  of  vehicles.  They  went  on 
their  preoccupied  way  swiftly  and  surely. 

"I  never  did  see  such  a  town,  and  me  just  hittin*  the 
fringes  of  it  yet,"  Clay  moaned  aloud  in  comic  despair, 
unaware  that  even  New  York  has  no  noisier  street  than 
Sixth  Avenue. 

Chance  swept  him  up  Sixth  to  Herald  Square.  He  was 
caught  in  the  river  of  humanity  that  races  up  Broadway. 
His  high-heeled  boots  clicked  on  the  pavement  of  one  of 
the  world's  great  thoroughfares  as  far  as  Forty-Second 
Street.  Under  the  shadow  of  the  Times  Building  he 
stopped  to  look  about  him.  Motor-cars,  street-cars,  and 
trucks  rolled  past  in  endless  confusion.  Every  instant 
the  panorama  shifted,  yet  it  was  always  the  same.  He 
wondered  where  all  this  rush  of  people  was  going.  What 
crazy  impulses  sent  them  surging  to  and  fro?  And  the 
girls  —  Clay  surrendered  to  them  at  discretion.  He  had 
not  supposed  there  were  so  many  pretty,  well-dressed 
girls  in  the  world. 

"I  reckon  money  grows  on  trees  in  New  York,"  he 
told  himself  aloud  with  a  grin. 

Broadway  fascinated  him.  He  followed  it  uptown 
toward  Longacre  Circle.  The  street  was  as  usual  in  a 


C8  THE  BIG-TOWN  BOUNIMJP 

state  of  chronic  excavation.  His  foot  slipped  and  he  fell 
into  a  trench  while  trying  to  cross.  When  he  emerged  it 
was  with  a  pound  or  two  of  Manhattan  mud  on  his 
corduroy  suit.  He  looked  at  himself  again  with  a  sense 
that  his  garb  did  not  quite  measure  up  to  New  York 
standards. 

"First  off  I'm  goin'  to  get  me  a  real  city  suit  of 
clothes/'  he  promised  himself.  "  This  here  wrinkled  outfit 
is  some  too  woolly  for  the  big  town.  It's  a  good  suit  yet 
—  'most  as  good  as  when  I  bought  it  at  the  Boston 
Store  in  Tucson  three  years  ago.  But  I  reckon  I  '11  save  it 
to  go  home  in." 

To  a  policeman  directing  traffic  at  a  crossing  he  ap- 
plied for  information. 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  there's  a  dry-goods  store  in 
this  man's  town?  "  he  asked.  "I  fell  into  this  here  Broad- 
way and  got  kinda  messed  up." 

"Watchawant?" 

"Suit  o'  clothes." 

The  traffic  cop  sized  him  up  in  one  swift  glance. 
"Siventh  Avenue,"  he  said,  and  pointed  in  that  direc- 
tion. 

Clay  took  his  advice.  He  stopped  in  front  of  a  store 
above  which  was  the  legend  "I.  Bernstein,  Men's  Gar- 
ments." A  small  man  with  sharp  little  eyes  and  well- 
defined  nose  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Might  you  would  want  a  good  suit  of  qvality  clothes, 
my  friendt,"  he  suggested. 

"You've  pegged  me  right,"  agreed  the  Westerner 
with  his  ready  smile.  "Lead  me  to  it/' 

Mr.  Bernstein  personally  conducted  his  customer  to 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  29 

the  suit  department.  "I  wait  on  you  myself  on  account 
you  was  a  stranger  to  the  city."  he  explained. 

The  little  man  took  a  suit  from  a  rack  and  held  it  at 
arm's  length  to  admire  it.  Ilis  fingers  caressed  the  woof 
of  it  lovingly.  He  evidently  could  bring  himself  to  part 
with  it  only  after  a  struggle. 

"Worsted.  Fine  goods."  He  leaned  toward  the  range- 
rider  and  whispered  a  secret.  "Imported." 

Clay  shook  his  head.  "Not  what  I  want."  His  eyes 
ranged  the  racks.  "This  is  more  my  notion  of  the  sort  of 
thing  I  like."  He  pointed  to  a  blue  serge  with  a  little 
stripe  in  the  pattern. 

The  eyes  of  Mr.  Bernstein  marveled  at  the  discrimina- 
tion of  his  customer.  "If  you  had  taken  an  advice  from 
me,  it  would  have  been  to  buy  that  suit.  A  man  gets  a 
chance  at  a  superior  garment  like  that,  understan*  me, 
only  once  in  a  while  occasionally." 

"How  much?"  asked  Lindsay. 

The  dealer  was  too  busy  to  hear  this  crass  question. 
That  suit,  Clay  gathered,  had  been  the  pride  of  his  heart 
ever  since  he  had  seen  it  first.  He  detached  the  coat 
lovingly  from  the  hanger  and  helped  his  customer  into  it. 
Then  he  fell  back,  eyes  lit  with  enthusiastic  amazement. 
Only  fate  could  have  brought  together  this  man  and  this 
suit,  so  manifestly  destined  for  each  other  since  the 
hour  when  Eve  began  to  patch  up  fig  leaves  for  Adam. 

"Like  a  coat  of  paint,"  he  murmured  aloud. 

The  cowpuncher  grinned.  He  understood  the  business 
that  went  with  selling  a  suit  in  some  stores.  But  it  hap- 
pened that  he  liked  this  suit  himself.  "How  much?"  he 
repeated. 


30  TEE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

The  owner  of  the  store  dwelt  on  the  merits  of  the  suit, 
its  style,  its  durability,  the  perfect  fit.  He  covered  his 
subject  with  artistic  thoroughness.  Then,  reluctantly,  he 
confided  in  a  whisper  the  price  at  which  he  was  going  to 
sacrifice  this  suit  among  suits. 

"To  you,  my  friendt,  I  make  this  garment  for  only 
sixty-five  dollars."  He  added  another  secret  detail. 
"Below  wholesale  cost/' 

A  little  devil  of  mirth  lit  in  Lindsay's  eye.  "  I  'd  hate  to 
have  you  rob  yoreself  tike  that.  And  me  a  perfect  stran- 
ger to  you  too." 

"Qvality,  y'  understan'  me.  Which  a  man  must  got  to 
live  garments  like  I  done  to  appreciate  such  a  suit.  All 
wool.  Every  thread  of  it.  Unshrinkable.  This  is  a  qvality 
town.  If  you  want  the  best  it  costs  a  little  more,  but  you 
got  anyhow  a  suit  which  a.  man  might  be  married  in 
without  shame,  understan'  me." 

The  Arizonan  backed  off  in  apparent  alarm.  "Say,  is 
this  a  weddin*  garment  you  're  onloadin'  on  me?  Do 
I  have  to  sashay  down  a  church  aisle  and  promise  I 
do?" 

Mr.  Bernstein  explained  that  this  was  not  obligatory. 
All  he  meant  was  that  the  suit  was  good  enough  to  be 
married  in,  or  for  that  matter  to  be  buried  in. 

"Or  to  be  born  anew  in  when  Billy  vSunday  comes  to 
town  and  I  hit  the  sawdust  trail,"  suggested  the  pur- 
chaser. 

Mr.  Bernstein  caressed  it  again.  "One  swell  piece  of 
goods,"  he  told  himself  softly,  almost  with  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"All  wool,  you  say?"  asked  Clay,  feeling  the  texture. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  SI 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  buy  it,  though  he  thought 
the  price  a  bit  stiff. 

Mr.  Bernstein  protested  on  his  honor  that  there  was 
not  a  thread  of  cotton  in  it.  "Which  you  could  take  it 
from  me  that  when  I  sell  a  suit  of  clothes  it  is  like  I  am 
dealing  with  my  own  brother,"  he  added.  "Every  gar- 
ment out  of  this  store  takes  my  personal  guarantee." 

Clay  tried  on  the  trousers  and  looked  at  himself  in  the 
glass.  So  far  as  he  could  tell  he  looked  just  like  any  other 
New  Yorker. 

The  dealer  leaned  forward  and  spoke  in  a  whisper. 
Apparently  he  was  ashamed  of  his  softness  of  heart. 
"Fifty-five  dollars  —  to  you." 

"I'll  take  it,"  the  Westerner  said. 

The  clothier  called  his  tailor  from  the  rear  of  the  stors 
to  make  an  adjustment  in  the  trcusers.  Meanwhile  hs 
deftly  removed  the  tags  which  told  him  in  cipher  that 
the  suit  had  cost  him  just  eleven  dollars  and  seventy- 
five  cents. 

Half  an  hour  later  Clay  sat  on  top  of  a  Fifth-Avenue 
bus  which  was  jerking  its  way  uptown.  His  shoes  were 
shined  to  mirror  brightness.  He  was  garbed  in  a  blue 
serge  suit  with  a  little  stripe  running  through  the  pat- 
tern. That  suit  just  now  was  the  apple  of  his  eye.  It 
proved  him  a  New  Yorker  and  not  a  wild  man  from  the 
Arizona  desert. 


CHAPTER  W 

A  NEW  USE  FOR  A  WATER  HOSE 

THE  motor-bus  ran  up  Fifth  Avenue,  cut  across  tft 
Broadway,  passed  Columbus  Circle,  and  swept  into  the 
Drive.  It  was  a  day  divinely  young  and  fair.  The  fra- 
grance of  a  lingering  spring  was  wafted  to  the  nostrils. 
Only  the  evening  before  the  trees  had  been  given  a  bath 
of  rain  and  the  refreshment  of  it  showed  in  every  quiver- 
ing leaf.  From  its  little  waves  the  Hudson  reflected  a 
znillion  sparkles  of  light.  Glimpses  of  the  Park  tempted 
Clay.  Its  winding  paths!  The  children  playing  on  the 
grass  while  their  maids  in  neat  caps  and  aprons  gos- 
siped together  on  the  benches  near!  This  was  the  most 
human  spot  the  man  from  Arizona  had  seen  in  the 
metropolis. 

Somewnere  in  the  early  three-figure  streets  he  de- 
scended from  the  top  of  the.  bus  and  let  his  footsteps 
follow  his  inclinations  into  the  Park.  A  little  shaver  in  a 
sailor  suit  ran  across  the  path  and  fell  sprawling  at  the 
feet  of  Clay.  He  picked  up  and  began  to  comfort  the 
howling  four-year-old. 

"That  sure  was  a  right  hard  fall,  sonny,  but  you're 
not  goin'  to  make  any  fuss  about  it.  You're  Daddy's 
little  man  and  — " 

A  sharp,  high  voice  cut  into  his  consolation. 

"Cedric,  come  here!" 

The  little  boy  went,  bawling  lustily  to  win  sympathy. 
The  nursemaid  shook  him  impatiently.  "How  many 


times  have  I  told  you  to  look  whore  you're  going? 
Serves  you  just  right.  Now  be  stiD." 

There  was  a  deep  instinct  in  Clay  to  stand  by  those  in 
trouble  when  they  were  weak.  A  child  or  a  woman  in 
distress  always  had  a  claim  on  hhn. 

"I  reckon  the  liT  fellow  was  hi  a  hurry,  Miss/'  he 
said,  smiling.  "I  'most  always  was  at  his  age.  But  he 
ain't  hurt  much." 

The  maid  looked  Clay  up  and  down  scornfully  before 
she  turned  her  back  on  him  and  began  to  talk  with 
another  nurse. 

Beneath  the  tan  of  the  range-rider's  cheeks  the  color 
flamed.  This  young  woman  had  not  mistaken  the  friend- 
liness of  the  West  for  the  impudence  of  a  street  masher. 
The  impulse  of  snobbery  had  expressed  itself  in  her 
action. 

The  cowpuncher  followed  a  path  that  took  him  back 
to  the  street.  He  grinned,  but  there  was  no  smile  in  his 
heart.  He  was  ashamed  of  this  young  woman  who  could 
meet  good- will  with  scorn,  and  he  wanted  to  get  away 
from  her  without  any  unnecessary  delay.  What  were  the 
folks  like  in  this  part  of  the  country  that  you  could  n't 
speak  to  them  without  getting  insulted? 

He  struck  across  the  Drive  into  a  side  street.  An 
apartment  house  occupied  the  corner,  but  from  the  other 
side  a  row  of  handsome  private  dwellings  faced  him. 

The  janitor  of  the  apartment  house  was  watering  the 
parking  beyond  the  sidewalk.  The  edge  of  the  stream 
from  the  nozzle  of  the  hose  sprayed  the  path  in  front  of 
Clay.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment  to  give  the  man  time 
to  turn  aside  the  hose. 


84  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

But  the  janitor  on  this  particular  morning  had  been 
fed  up  with  trouble.  One  of  the  tenants  had  complained 
of  him  to  the  agent  of  the  place.  Another  had  moved 
away  without  tipping  him  for  an  hour's  help  in  packing 
he  had  given  her.  He  was  sulkily  of  the  opinion  that  the 
whole  world  was  in  a  conspiracy  to  annoy  him.  Just 
now  the  approaching  rube  typified  the  world. 

A  little  flirt  of  the  hose  deluged  Clay's  newly  shined 
boots  and  the  lower  six  inches  of  his  trousers. 

"Look  out  what  you're  doing!"  protested  the  man 
from  Arizona. 

"I  tank  you  better  look  where  you're  going,"  retorted 
the  one  from  Sweden.  He  was  a  heavy-set,  muscular 
man  with  a  sullen,  obstinate  face. 

"My  shoes  and  trousers  are  sopping  wet." 

"  Yust  you  bate  it  oop  street.  I  ant  look  for  no  trou- 
ble with  no  rubes." 

"I  believe  you  did  it  on  purpose." 

"Tank  so?  Val,  yust  one  teng  I  lak  to  tell  you.  I  got 
no  time  for  damn  fule  talk." 

The  Westerner  started  on  his  way.  There  was  no  use 
having  a  row  with  a  sulky  janitor. 

But  the  Swede  misunderstood  his  purpose.  At  Clay's 
first  step  forward  he  jerked  round  the  nozzle  and  let  the 
range-rider  have  it  with  full  force. 

Clay  was  swept  back  to  the  wall  by  the  heavy  pressure 
of  water  that  played  over  him.  The  stream  moved 
swiftly  up  and  down  him  from  head  to  foot  till  it  had 
drenched  every  inch  of  the  perfect  fifty-five-dollar  suit- 
He  drowned  fathoms  deep  in  a  water  spout.  He  was 
swept  over  Niagara  Falls.  He  came  to  life  again  to  find 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-DP  36 

himself  the  choking  center  of  a  world  flood.  He  sputtered 
furiously  while  his  arms  flailed  like  windmills  to  keep 
back  the  river  of  water  that  engulfed  him. 

The  thought  that  brought  him  back  to  action  was  one 
that  had  to  do  with  the  blue  serge.  The  best  fifty-five- 
dollar  suit  in  New  York  was  ruined  in  this  submarine 
disaster. 

He  gave  a  strangled  whoop  and  charged  straight  at 
the  man  behind  the  hose.  The  two  clinched.  While  they 
struggled,  the  writhing  hose  slapped  back  and  forth 
between  them  like  an  agitated  snake.  Clay  had  one 
advantage.  He  was  wet  through  anyhow.  It  did  not 
matter  how  much  of  the  deluge  struck  him.  The  janitor 
fought  to  keep  dry  and  he  had  not  a  chance  on  earth  to 
succeed. 

For  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds  of  Arizona 
bone  and  muscle,  toughened  by  years  of  hard  work  in 
sun  and  wind,  had  clamped  itself  upon  him.  The  nozzle 
twisted  toward  the  janitor.  He  ducked,  went  down,  and 
was  instantly  submerged.  When  he  tried  to  rise,  the 
stream  beat  him  back.  He  struggled  halfway  up,  slipped, 
got  again  to  his  feet,  and  came  down  sitting  with  a  hard 
bump  when  his  legs  skated  from  under  him. 

A  smothered  "Vat  t'ell!"  rose  out  of  the  waters.  It 
was  both  a  yelp  of  rage  and  a  wail  of  puzzled  chagrin. 
The  janitor  could  not  understand  what  was  happening 
to  him.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  being  treated  to  a 
new  form  of  the  water  cure. 

Before  his  dull  brain  had  functioned  to  action  an  iron 
grip  had  him  by  the  back  of  the  neck.  He  was  jerked  to 
his  feet  and  propelled  forward  to  the  curb.  Every  inch  of 


S8  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

the  way  the  heavy  stream  from  the  nozzle  broke  on  his 
face  and  neck.  It  paralyzed  his  resistance,  jarred  him  so 
that  he  could  not  gather  himself  to  fight.  He  was  stifl 
sputtering  "By  damn,"  when  Clay  bumped  him  up 
against  a  hitching-post,  garroted  him,  and  swung  the 
hose  around  the  post  in  such  a  way  as  to  encircle  the  feet 
of  the  man. 

The  cowpuncher  drew  the  hose  tight,  slipped  the 
nozzle  through  the  iron  ring,  and  caught  the  flapping 
arms  of  the  man  to  his  body.  With  the  deft  skill  of  a 
trained  roper  Clay  swung  the  rubber  pipe  round  the 
body  of  the  man  again  and  again,  drawing  it  close  to 
the  post  and  knotting  it  securely  behind.  The  Swede 
struggled,  but  his  furious  rage  availed  him  nothing.  He 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  champion  roper  of  Graham 
County,  a  man  who  had  hogtied  a  wild  hill  steer  in 
thirty-three  seconds  by  the  watch. 

Jt  took  longer  than  this  to  rope  up  the  husky  janitor 
with  a  squirming  hose,  but  when  Clay  stepped  back  to 
inspect  his  job  he  knew  he  was  looking  at  one  that  had 
been  done  thoroughly. 

"I  keel  you,  by  damn,  ef  you  don't  turn  me  loose!" 
roared  the  big  man  in  a  rage. 

The  range-rider  grinned  gayly  at  him.  He  was  having 
the  time  of  his  young  life.  He  did  not  even  regret  his 
fifty-five-dollar  suit.  Already  he  could  see  that  Arizona 
had  nothing  on  New  York  when  it  came  to  getting 
action  for  your  money. 

i  "Life 's  just  loaded  to  the  hocks  with  disappointment, 
OHe,"  he  explained,  and  his  voice  was  full  of  genial 
sympathy.  "I'll  bet  a  dollar  Mex  you'd  sure  like  to 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  37 

beat  me  on  the  haid  with  a  two  by  four.  But  I  don't 
reckon  you'll  ever  get  that  fond  wish  gratified.  We're 
not  liable  to  meet  up  with  each  other  again  pronto. 
To-day  we're  here  and  to-morrow  we're  at  Yuma, 
Arizona,  say,  for  life  is  short  and  darned  fleetin',  as  the 
poet  fellow  says." 

He  waved  a  hand  jauntily  and  turned  to  go.  But  he 
changed  his  mind.  His  eye  had  fallen  on  a  young  woman 
standing  at  a  French  window  of  the  house  opposite.  She 
was  beckoning  to  him  imperiously. 

The  young  woman  disappeared  as  he  crossed  the 
street,  but  in  a  few  moments  the  door  opened  and  she 
stood  there  waiting  for  him.  Clay  stared.  He  had  never 
before  seen  a  girl  dressed  like  this.  She  was  in  riding- 
boots,  breeches,  and  coat.  Her  eyes  dilated  while  she 
looked  at  him. 

"Wyoming?"  she  asked  at  last  in  a  low  voice. 

"Arizona,"  he  answered. 

"All  one.  Knew  it  the  moment  I  saw  you  tie  him; 
Come  in."  She  stood  aside  to  let  him  pass. 

That  hall,  with  its  tapestried  walls,  its  polished  floors* 
and  Oriental  rugs,  was  reminiscent  of  "the  movies"  to 
Clay.  Nowhere  else  had  he  seen  a  home  so  stamped  with 
the  mark  of  ample  means. 

"Come  in,"  she  ordered  again,  a  little  sharply. 

He  came  in  and  she  closed  the  door. 

"I'm  sopping  wet.  I'll  drip  all  over  the  floor." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  You'll  be  arrested,  you 
know."  She  stood  straight  and  slim  as  a  boy,  and  the 
frank  directness  of  her  gaze  had  a  boy's  sexless  uncon- 
sciousness. 


88  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Thought  I'd  give  myself  up  to  the  marshal." 
'  She  laughed  outright  at  this.  "Not  in  this  town.  A 
stranger  like  you  would  have  no  chance.  Listen."  There 
came  to  them  from  outside  the  tap-tap-tap-tap  of  a 
policeman's  night  stick  rattling  on  the  curbstone.  "He's 
calling  help." 

"I  can  explain  how  it  happened." 

"No.  He  wouldn't  understand.  They'd  find  you 
guilty." 

He  moved  from  the  rug  where  he  was  standing  to  let 
the  water  drip  on  the  hardwood  floor. 

"Sho!  Folks  are  mostly  reasonable.  I'd  tell  the  judge 
how  it  come  about." 

"No." 

"Well,  I  can't  stay  here." 

"Yes  —  till  they've  gone." 

Her  imperative  warmed  his  heart,  but  he  tried  to  ex- 
plain gently  why  he  could  not.  "I  can't  drag  you  into 
this.  Like  as  not  the  Swede  saw  me  come  in." 

To  a  manservant  standing  in  the  background  the 
young  woman  spoke.  "Jenkins,  have  Nora  clean  up  the 
floor  and  the  steps  outside.  And  remember  —  I  don't 
want  the  police  to  know  this  gentleman  is  here." 

"Yes,  Miss." 

"Come!"  said  the  girl  to  her  guest.  She  led  Clay  to 
the  massive  stairway,  but  stopped  at  the  first  tread  to 
call  back  an  order  over  her  shoulder.  "Refer  the  officers 
to  me  if  they  insist  on  coming  into  the  house." 

"I '11  see  to  it,  Miss." 

Clay  followed  his  hostess  to  the  stairs  and  went  up 
them  with  her,  but  he  went  protesting,  though  with  a 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-DP  3d 

chuckle  of  mirth.  "He  sure  ruined  my  clothes  a  heap. 
I  ain't  fit  to  be  seen." 

The  suit  he  had  been  so  proud  of  was  shrinking  so  that 
his  arms  and  legs  stuck  out  like  signposts.  The  color  had 
run  and  left  the  goods  a  peculiar  bilious-looking  overall 
blue. 

She  Kt  a  gas-log  in  a  small  library  den. 

"Just  a  minute,  please." 

She  stepped  briskly  from  the  room.  In  her  manner  was 
a  crisp  decision,  in  her  poise  a  trim  gallantry  that  won 
him  instantly. 

"I'll  bet  she'd  do  to  ride  with,"  he  told  himself  in  a 
current  Western  idiom. 

When  she  came  back  it  was  to  take  him  to  a  dressing- 
room.  A  complete  change  of  clothing  was  laid  out  for 
him  on  a  couch.  A  man  whom  Clay  recognized  as  a 
valet  —  he  had  seen  his  duplicate  in  the  moving-picture 
theaters  at  Tucson  —  was  there  to  supply  his  needs  and 
attend  to  the  temperature  of  his  bath. 

"Stevens  will  look  after  you,"  she  said;  "when  you 
are  ready  come  back  to  Dad's  den." 

His  eyes  followed  to  the  door  her  resilient  step.  Once, 
when  he  was  a  boy,  he  had  seen  Ada  Rehan  play  in  "As 
You  Like  It."  Her  acting  had  entranced  him.  This  girl 
carried  him  back  to  that  hour.  She  was  boyish  as  Rosa- 
lind, woman  in  every  motion  of  her  slim  and  lissom  body. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairway  she  paused.  Jenkins  was 
moving  hurriedly  up  to  meet  her. 

"It's  a  policeman,  Miss.  'E's  come  about  the  —  the 
person  that  came  in,  and  Vs  talkin'  to  Nora  on  the 
Steps,  She's  a-jollyin'  'im,  as  you  might  say,  Miss." 


40  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUNIMJP 

His  young  mistress  nodded.  She  swept  the  hall  with 
the  eye  of  a  general.  Swiftly  she  changed  the  position  ol 
a  Turkish  rug  so  as  to  hide  a  spot  on  the  polished  floor 
that  had  been  recently  scrubbed  and  was  still  moist.  It 
seemed  best  to  discover  Nora's  plan  of  campaign  before 
taking  over  the  charge  of  affairs. 

"Many 's  the  time  I've  met  yuh  goin'  down  the  Ave- 
noo  with  your  heels  clickin'  an'  your  head  high,"  came 
the  rich  brogue  of  Nora  O'Flannigan.  "An'  I  've  said  to 
myself,  sez  I,  who 's  the  handsome  officer  that  sets  off  his 
uniform  so  gr-rand?" 

The  girl  leaned  on  her  mop  and  gave  the  policeman 
a  slant  glance  out  of  eyes  of  Irish  brown.  It  was  not 
Nora's  fault  that  she  was  as  pretty  a  colleen  as  ever 
came  out  of  Limerick,  but  there  was  no  law  that  made 
her  send  such  a  roguish  come-hither  look  at  the  man  in 
blue. 

He  beamed.  He  was  as  pleased  as  a  cat  that  has  been 
stroked  and  fed  cream. 

"  Well,  an'  yuh  're  not  the  only  wan  that  notices,  Miss 
Nora.  I'm  a  noticin'  lad  mesilf.  An'  it's  the  truth  that 
I'd  be  glad  enough  to  meet  yuh  some  fine  evenin'  when 
I  *m  off  duty.  But  about  this  strong-arm  guy  that  tied  up 
the  janitor.  The  Swede  says  he  went  into  wan  av  these 
houses.  Now  here's  the  wet  color  from  his  suit  that  ran 
over  the  steps.  He  musta  come  up  hereJ' 

"Before  he  ran  down  the  street.  Sure,  an'  that's  just 
what  he  done.  Yuh  're  a  janious,  officer." 

"Maybe  he  got  into  the  house  somehow." 

"Now,  how  could  he  do  that?  With  all  av  us  upstairs 
and 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  41 

**1  don't  say  he  did.  But  if  I  was  to  just  take  a  look 
fcslde  so  as  to  report  that  I  'd  searched  — " 

"  Och!  Ynh  'd  be  wastin'  your  time,  officer." 

"Sure,  I  krx>w  that.  But  for  the  report — " 

The  young  woman  in  the  riding  costume  chose  this 
moment  to  open  the  door  and  saunter  out. 

"Does  the  officer  want  something,  Nora?"  she  asked 
innocently,  switching  the  end  of  a  crop  against  her 
riding-boots. 

"  Yes,  Miss.  There 's  be^n  a  ruffian  batin'  up  Swedes 
an'  tyin'  'em  to  posts.  This  officer  thinks  he  came  here/' 
explained  Nora. 

"Does  he  want  to  look  in  the  house?" 

"Yes,  Miss." 

"Then  let  him  come  in."  The  young  mistress  took  the 
responsibility  on  her  own  shoulders.  She  led  the  police- 
man into  the  hall.  "I  don't  really  see  how  he  could  have 
got  in  here  without  some  of  us  seeing  him,  officer." 

"No,  ma'am.  I  don't  see  how  he  could."  The  patrol- 
•man  scratched  his  red  head.  " The  janitor 's  a  Swede, 
anyhow.  He  jist  guessed  it.  I  came  to  make  sure  av  it. 
I'll  be  sorry  for  troubling  yuh,  Miss." 

The  smile  she  gave  him  was  warm  and  friendly.  "Oh, 
that's  all  right.  If  you'd  care  to  look  around.  .  .  .  But 
there  really  is  no  use." 

"No."  The  forehead  under  the  red  thatch  wrinkled  in 
thought.  "He  said  he  seen  him  come  in  here  or  next 
door,  an'  he  came  up  the  steps.  But  nobody  could  have 
got  in  without  some  of  youse  seein'  him.  That's  a  lead 
pipe."  The  officer  pushed  any  doubt  that  remained 
from  his  mind.  "Only  a  muddle-headed  Swede," 


4£  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  come.  It  makes  us  feel  safer  to 
have  officers  like  you.  If  you'll  give  me  your  name  I'D 
call  up  the  precinct  captain  and  tell  him  so." 

The  man  in  uniform  turned  beet  red.  "McGuffey, 
Miss,  and  it 's  a  pleasure  to  serve  the  likes  of  yuh,"  he 
said,  pleased  and  embarrassed. 

He  bowed  himself  out  backward,  skidded  on  the  pol- 
ished floor,  and  saved  himself  from  going  down  by  a 
frantic  fling  of  arms  and  some  fancy  skating.  When  he 
recovered,  his  foot  caught  in  a  rug  and  wadded  it  to  a 
knot. 

Nora  giggled  behind  her  fingers,  but  her  mistress  did 
not  even  smile  at  the  awkwardness  of  Patrolman  Me- 
Guffey. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said  sweetly. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  CONTRIBUTION  TO  THE  SALVATION  ARMY 

WHILE  Beatrice  Whitford  waited  in  the  little  library  for 
the  Arizonan  to  join  her,  she  sat  in  a  deep  chair,  chin  in 
hand,  eyes  fixed  on  the  jetting  flames  of  the  gas-log.  A 
little  flush  had  crept  into  the  oval  face.  In  her  blcod 
there  tingled  the  stimulus  of  excitement.  For  into  her 
life  an  adventure  had  come  from  faraway  Cattleland. 

A  crisp,  strong  footstep  sounded  in  the  hall.  Her 
fingers  flew  to  pat  into  place  the  soft  golden  hair  coiled 
low  at  the  nape  of  the  neck.  At  times  she  had  a  boylike 
unconcern  of  sex;  again,  a  spirit  wholly  feminine. 

The  clothes  of  her  father  fitted  Lindsay  loosely,  for 
Colin  Whitford  had  begun  to  take  on  the  flesh  of  middle 
age  and  Clay  was  lean  and  clean  of  build  as  an  elk.  But 
the  Westerner  was  one  of  those  to  whom  clothes  are  un- 
important. The  splendid  youth  of  him  would  have  shone 
through  the  rags  of  a  beggar. 

"My  name  is  Clay  Lindsay,"  he  told  her  by  way  of 
introduction. 

"Mine  is  Beatrice  Whitford,"  she  answered. 

They  shook  hands. 

"I  'm  to  wait  here  till  my  clothes  dry,  yore  man  says." 

"Then  you'd  better  sit  down,"  she  suggested. 

Within  five  minutes  she  knew  that  he  had  been  in  New 
York  less  than  three  hours.  His  impressions  of  the  city 
amused  and  entertained  her.  He  was  quite  simple.  She 
could  look  into  his  mind  as  though  it  were  a  deep,  clear 


44  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

well.  There  was  something  inextinguishably  boyish  and 
buoyant  about  him.  But  in  his  bronzed  face  and  steady, 
humorous  eyes  were  strength  and  shrewdness.  He  was 
the  last  man  in  the  world  a  bunco-steerer  could  play  for 
a  sucker.  She  felt  that.  Yet  he  made  no  pretenses  of  a 
worldly  wisdom  he  did  not  have, 

A  voice  reached  them  from  the  top  of  the  stairs, 

"Do  you  know  where  Miss  Whitford  is,  Jenkins?'* 

"Hin  the  Red  Room,  sir."  The  answer  was  in  the  evec, 
colorless  voice  of  a  servant. 

The  girl  rose  at  once.  "If  you'll  excuse  me,"  she  said, 
and  stepped  out  of  the  room. 

"Hello,  Bee.  What  do  you  think?  I  never  saw  such 
idiots  as  the  police  of  this  town  are.  They're  watch- 
ing this  house  for  a  desperado  who  assaulted  some  one 
outside.  I  met  a  sergeant  on  our  steps.  Says  he  does  n't 
think  the  man's  here,  but  there's  just  a  chance  he 
slipped  into  the  basement.  It's  absurd." 

"Of  course  it  is."  There  was  a  ripple  of  mirth  in  the 
girl's  voice..  "He  did  n't  come  in  by  the  basement  at  alk 
but  walked  in  at  the  front  door.'* 

"Who  are  you  talking  about?" 

"The  desperado,  Dad." 

"  The  front  door ! "  exploded  her  father.  "What  do  you 
mean?  Who  let  him  in?" 

**I  did.  He  came  as  my  guest,  at  my  invitation." 

"What?" 

"Don't  shout,  Dad,"  she  advised.  "I  thought  I  had 
brought  you  up  better." 

"But — but  —  but  —  what  do  you  mean?"  he  sput- 
tered. **!»  this  ruffian  in  the  house  now?  M 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  45 

**Oh,  yes.  He's  in  the  Red  Room  here  —  and  unless 
he's  very  deaf  he  hears  everything  we  are  saying,"  the 
girl  answered  calmly,  much  amused  at  the  amazement 
of  her  father.  "  Won't  you  come  in  and  see  him?  He 
does  n't  seem  very  desperate." 

Clay  rose,  pinpoints  of  laughter  dancing  in  his  eyes. 
He  liked  the  gay  audacity  of  this  young  woman,  just  as 
he  liked  the  unconventional  pluck  with  which  she  had 
intruded  herself  into  his  affairs  as  a  rescuer  and  the 
businesslike  efficiency  that  had  got  him  out  of  his  wet 
rags  into  comfortable  clothes. 

A  moment  later  he  was  offering  a  brown  hand  to  Colin 
Whitford,  who  took  it  reluctantly,  with  the  same  wari- 
ness a  boxer  does  that  of  his  opponent  in  the  ring.  His 
eyes  said  plainly,  "  What  the  deuce  are  you  doing  here, 
sitting  in  my  favorite  chair,  smoking  one  of  my  imported 
cigars,  wearing  my  clothes,  and  talking  to  my  daugh- 
ter?" 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Whitford.  Yore  daughter  has 
just  saved  my  life  from  the  police,"  the  Westerner  said, 
and  his  friendly  smile  was  very  much  in  evidence. 

"You  make  yourself  at  home,"  answered  the  owner  of 
a  large  per  cent  of  the  stock  of  the  famous  Bird  Cage 
mine. 

"My  guests  do,  Dad.  It's  the  proof  that  I'm  a  perfect 
hostess,"  retorted  Beatrice,  her  dainty,  provocative  face 
flashing  to  mirth. 

"Hmp!"  grunted  her  father  dryly.  "I'd  like  to 
know,  young  man,  why  the  police  are  shadowing  this 
house?  " 

"I  expect  they're  lookin*  for  me." 


46  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"I  expect  they  are,  and  I'm  not  sure  I  won't  help 
them  find  you.  You  '11  have  to  show  cause  if  I  don't.'* 

"His  bark  is  much  worse  than  his  bite,"  the  girl 
explained  to  Clay,  just  as  though  her  father  were  not 
present. 

"Hmp!"  exploded  the  mining  magnate  a  second  time. 
"Get  busy,  young  fellow." 

Clay  told  the  story  of  the  fifty-five-dollar  suit  that 
I.  Bernstein  had  wished  on  him  with  near-tears  of  regret 
at  parting  from  it.  The  cowpuncher  dramatized  the  sit- 
uation with  some  native  talent  for  mimicry.  His  arms 
gestured  like  the  lifted  wings  of  a  startled  cockerel.  "A 
man  gets  a  chance  at  a  garment  like  that  only  once  in  a 
while  occasionally.  Which  you  can  take  it  from  me  that 
when  I.  Bernstein  sells  a  suit  of  clothes  it  is  shust  like 
he  is  dealing  with  his  own  brother.  Qvality,  my  friend ts, 
qvality!  Why,  I  got  anyhow  a  suit  which  I  might  be 
married  in  without  shame,  un'erstan'  me." 

Colin  Whitford  was  of  the  West  himself.  He  had  lived 
its  rough-and-tumble  life  for  years  before  he  made  his 
lucky  strike  in  the  Bird  Cage.  He  had  moved  from  Colo- 
rado to  New  York  only  ten  years  before.  The  sound  of 
Clay's  drawling  voice  was  like  a  message  from  home.  He 
began  to  grin  in  spite  of  himself.  This  man  was  too  good 
to  be  true.  It  was  n't  possible  that  anybody  could  come 
to  the  big  town  and  import  into  it  so  naively  such  a  genu- 
ine touch  of  the  outdoor  West.  It  was  not  possible,  but 
it  had  happened  just  the  same.  Of  course  Manhattan 
would  soon  take  the  color  out  of  him.  It  always  did  out 
of  everybody.  The  city  was  so  big,  so  overpowering,  so 
individual  itself,  that  it  tolerated  no  individuality  in  its 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  47 

citizens.  Whitford  had  long  since  become  a  conformist. 
He  was  willing  to  bet  a  hat  that  this  big  brown  Arizonan 
would  eat  out  of  the  city's  hand  within  a  week.  In  the 
meantime  he  wanted  to  be  among  those  present  while 
the  process  of  taming  the  wild  man  took  place.  Long 
before  the  cowpuncher  had  finished  his  story  of  hog- 
tying  the  Swede  to  a  hitching-post  with  his  own  hose, 
the  mining  man  was  sealed  of  the  large  tribe  of  Clay 
Lindsay's  admirers.  He  was  ready  to  hide  him  from  all 
the  police  in  New  York. 

Whitford  told  Stevens  to  bring  in  the  fifty-five-dollar 
suit  so  that  he  could  gloat  over  it.  He  let  out  a  whoop 
of  delight  at  sight  of  its  still  sodden  appearance.  He 
examined  its  sickly  hue  with  chuckles  of  mirth. 

"Guaranteed  not  to  fade  or  shrink,"  murmured  Clay 
sadly. 

He  managed  to  get  the  coat  on  with  difficulty.  The 
sleeves  reached  just  below  his  elbows. 

"You  look  like  a  lifer  from  Sing  Sing,"  pronounced 
Whitford  joyously.  "Get  a  hair-cut,  and  you  won't  have 
a  chance  on  earth  to  fool  the  police." 

"The  color  did  run  and  fade  some,"  admitted  Clay. 

"Worth  every  cent  of  nine  ninety-eight  at  a  bargain 
sale  before  the  Swede  got  busy  with  it  —  and  he  let  you 
have  it  at  a  sacrifice  for  fifty-five  dollars!"  The  mil- 
lionaire wept  happy  tears  as  a  climax  of  his  rapture.  He 
swallowed  his  cigar  smoke  and  had  to  be  pounded  on  the 
back  by  his  daughter. 

"Would  you  mind  getting  yore  man  to  wrop  it  up 
for  me?  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  few  pleasant  words  with 
I.  Bernstein,"  said  Clay  with  mock  mournfulness. 


48  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"When?"  asked  Whitford  promptly. 

"Never  you  mind  when,  sah.  I'm  not  issuin'  any 
tickets  of  admission.  It's  goin'  to  be  a  strictly  private 
entertainment.'* 

"Are  you  going  to  take  a  water  hose  along?" 

"That's  right,"  reproached  Clay.  "Make  fun  of  me 
because  I  'm  a  stranger  and  come  right  from  the  alfalfa 
country."  He  turned  to  Beatrice  cheerfully.  "Os  course 
he  bit  me  good  and  proper.  I'm  green.  But  I'll  bet  he 
loses  that  smile  awful  quick  when  he  sees  me  again." 

"You're  not  going  to  — " 

"Me,  I'm  the  gentlest  citizen  in  Arizona.  Never  in 
trouble.  Always  peaceable  and  quiet.  Don't  you  get  to 
thinkin'  me  a  bad-man,  for  I  ain't." 

Jenkins  came  to  the  door  and  announced  "Mr.  Brom- 
field." 

Almost  on  his  heels  a  young  man  in  immaculate  rid- 
ing-clothes sauntered  into  the  room.  He  had  the  assured 
ease  of  one  who  has  the  run  of  the  house.  Miss  Whitford 
introduced  the  two  young  men  and  Bromfield  looked  the 
Westerner  over  with  a  suave  insolence  in  his  dark,  hand- 
some eyes. 

Clay  recognized  him  immediately.  He  had  shaken 
hands  once  before  with  this  well-satisfied  young  man, 
and  on  that  occasion  a  fifty-dollar  bill  had  passed  from 
one  to  the  other.  The  New  Yorker  evidently  did  not 
know  him. 

It  became  apparent  at  once  that  Bromfield  had  called 
to  go  riding  in  the  Park  with  Miss  Whitford.  That  young 
woman  came  up  to  say  good-bye  to  her  new  acquaint- 
ance. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  49 

"Will  you  be  here  when  I  get  back?" 

"Not  if  our  friends  outside  give  me  a  chance  for  a 
getaway,"  he  told  her. 

Her  bright,  unflinching  eyes  looked  into  his.  "You'll 
come  again  and  let  us  know  how  you  escaped,"  she  in- 
vited. 

"I'll  ce'tainly  do  that,  Miss  Whitford." 

"Then  we'll  look  for  you  Thursday  afternoon,  say/* 

"I '11  be  here." 

"If  the  police  don't  get  you." 

"They  won't,"  he  promised  serenely. 

"When  you're  quite  ready,  Bee,"  suggested  Brom- 
field  in  a  bored  voice. 

She  nodded  casually  and  walked  out  of  the  room  like 
a  young  Diana,  straight  as  a  dart  in  her  trim  slender- 
ness. 

Clay  slipped  out  of  the  house  by  the  back  way,  cut 
across  to  the  subway,  and  took  a  downtown  train.  He 
got  out  at  Forty-Second  Street  and  made  his  way  back 
to  the  clothing  establishment  of  I.  Bernstein. 

That  gentleman  was  in  his  office  in  the  rear  of  the 
store.  Lindsay  walked  back  to  it,  opened  and  closed  the 
door,  locked  it,  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

The  owner  of  the  place  rose  in  alarm  from  the  stool 
where  he  was  sitting.  "WThat  right  do  you  got  to  lock 
that  door?"  he  demanded. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  interrupted  while  I'm  seliin'  you 
this  suit,  Mr.  Bernstein,"  the  cowpuncher  told  him 
easily,  and  he  proceeded  to  unwrap  the  damp  package 
under  his  arm.  "It's  a  pippin  of  a  suit.  The  color  won't 
run  or  fade,  and  it's  absolutely  unshrinkable.  You  won't 


50  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-DP 

often  get  a  chance  at  a  suit  like  this.  Notice  the  style, 
the  cut,  the  quality  of  the  goods.  And  it's  only  goin'  to 
cost  you  fifty-five  dollars." 

The  clothing  man  looked  at  the  misshapen  thing 
with  eyes  that  bulged.  "Where  is  it  you  been  with 
this  suit  —  in  the  East  River,  my  friendt?"  he  wanted 
to  know. 

"I  took  a  walk  along  Riverside  Drive.  That's  all.  I 
got  a  strong  guarantee  with  this  suit  when  I  bought  it. 
I  'm  goin'  to  give  you  the  same  one  I  got.  It  won't  shrink 
or  fade  and  it  will  wear  to  beat  a  Tache  pup.  Oh,  you 
won't  make  any  mistake  buyin'  this  suit." 

"You  take  from  me  an  advice.  Unlock  that  door  and 
get  out." 

"I  can  give  you  better  advice  than  that.  Buy  this  suit 
right  away.  You'll  find  it's  a  bargain." 

The  steady  eyes  of  the  Westerner  daunted  the  mer- 
chant, but  he  did  not  intend  to  give  up  fifty-five  dollars 
without  a  murmur. 

"If  you  don't  right  avay  soon  open  that  door  I  call  the 
police.  Then  you  go  to  jail,  ain't  it?" 

"How's  yore  heart,  Mr.  Bernstein?"  asked  Clay 
tenderly. 

"What?" 

"I'm  askin'  about  yore  heart.  I  don't  know  as  you're 
hardly  strong  enough  to  stand  what  I  '11  do  to  you  if  you 
let  a  single  yelp  out  of  you.  I  kinda  hate  to  hurry  yore 
funeral,"  he  added  regretfully,  still  in  his  accustomed 
soft  drawl. 

The  man  beside  the  stool  attempted  one  shout.  In- 
stantly Clay  filled  his  mouth  with  a.  bunch  of  suit  sam- 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  *l 

pies  that  had  been  lying  on  the  desk.  With  one  arm  he 
held  the  struggling  little  man  close  to  his  body.  With  his 
foot  and  the  other  hand  he  broke  in  two  a  yardstick  and 
fitted  the  two  parts  together. 

"Here's  the  programme,"  he  said  by  way  of  explana- 
tion. "I'm  goin'  to  put  you  over  my  knee  and  paddle 
you  real  thorough.  When  you  make  up  yore  mind  that 
you  want  to  buy  that  suit  for  fifty-five  dollars,  it  will  be 
up  to  you  to  let  me  know.  Take  yore  own  time  about  it. 
Don't  let  me  hurry  you." 

Before  the  programme  had  more  than  well  started,  the 
victim  of  it  signified  his  willingness  to  treat  with  the  foe. 
To  part  with  fifty-five  dollars  was  a  painful  business,  but 
not  to  part  with  it  was  going  to  hurt  a  good  deal  more. 
He  chose  the  lesser  of  two  evils. 

While  he  was  counting  out  the  bills  Clay  bragged  up 
the  suit.  He  praised  its  merits  fluently  and  cheerfully. 
When  he  left  he  locked  the  door  of  the  office  behind  him 
and  handed  the  key  to  one  of  the  clerks. 

"I've  got  a  kinda  notion  Mr.  Bernstein  wants  to 
get  out  of  his  office.  He's  actin'  sort  o'  restless,  seems 
like." 

Restless  was  hardly  the  word.  He  was  banging  on  the 
door  like  a  wild  man.  "Police!  Murder!  Help!"  he 
shouted  in  a  high  falsetto. 

Clay  wasted  no  time.  He  and  the  fifty-five  dollars 
vanished  into  the  street.  In  his  haste  he  bumped  into  a 
Salvation  Army  lassie  with  a  tambourine. 

She  held  it  out  to  him  for  a  donation,  and  was  given 
the  shock  of  her  life.  For  into  that  tambourine  the  big 
brown  man  crammed  a  fistful  of  bills.  He  waited  for  no 


*t  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

thanks,  but  cut  round  the  corner  toward  Broadway  m  a 
hurry. 

When  the  girl  reached  headquarters  and  counted  the 
contribution  she  found  it  amounted  to  just  fifty-five 
dollars. 


CHAPTER  VI 
CLAY  TAKES  A  TRANSFER 

PROM  the  top  of  a  bus  Clay  Lindsay  looked  down  a 
canon  which  angled  across  the  great  city  like  a  river  of 
light. 

He  had  come  irom  one  land  of  gorges  to  another.  In 
the  walls  of  this  one,  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of 
cliff  -dwellers  hid  themselves  during  the  day  like  animals 
of  some  queer  breed  and  poured  out  into  the  canon  at 
sunset. 

Now  the  river  in  its  bed  was  alive  with  a  throbbing 
tide.  Cross-currents  of  humanity  flowed  into  it  from  side 
streets  and  ebbed  out  of  it  into  others.  Streams  of  people 
were  swept  down,  caught  here  and  there  in  swirling 
eddies.  Taxis,  private  motors,  and  trolley-cars  struggled 
in  the  raceway. 

Electric  sky-signs  flashed  and  changed.  From  the 
foyer  of  theaters  and  moving-picture  palaces  thousands 
of  bulbs  flung  their  glow  to  the  gorge.  A  mist  of  light 
hung  like  an  atmosphere  above  the  Great  White  Way. 

All  this  Clay  saw  in  a  flash  while  his  bus  crossed 
Broadway  on  its  way  to  the  Avenue.  His  eyes  had  be- 
come accustomed  to  this  brilliance  in  the  weeks  that  had 
passed  since  his  descent  upon  New  York,  but  familiarity 
had  not  yet  dulled  the  wonder  of  it. 

The  Avenue  offered  a  more  subdued  picture.  This 
facet  showed  a  glimpse  of  the  city  lovelier  and  more 
leisurely,  though  not  one  so  feverishly  gay.  It  carried 


54  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

his  mind  to  Beatrice  Whitford.  Some  touch  of  the 
quality  of  Fifth  Avenue  was  in  her  soul.  It  expressed  it- 
self in  the  simple  elegance  of  her  dress  and  in  the  fine- 
ness of  the  graceful,  vital  body.  Her  gayety  was  not  at 
all  the  high  spirits  of  Broadway,  but  there  were  times 
when  her  kinship  to  Fifth  Avenue  knifed  the  foolish 
hopes  in  his  heart. 

He  had  become  a  fast  friend  of  Miss  Whitford.  To- 
gether they  had  tramped  through  Central  Park  and 
motored  up  the  Hudson  in  one  of  her  father's  cars.  They 
had  explored  each  other's  minds  along  with  the  country 
and  each  had  known  the  surprise  and  delight  of  dis- 
coveries, of  finding  in  the  other  a  quality  of  freshness 
and  candor. 

Clay  sensed  in  this  young  woman  a  spirit  that  had  a 
way  of  sweeping  up  on  gay  young  wings  to  sudden  joys 
stirred  by  the  simplest  causes.  Her  outlook  on  life  was  as 
gallant  as  that  of  a  fine-tempered  schoolboy.  A  gallop  in 
the  Park  could  whip  the  flag  of  happiness  into  her  cheeks. 
A  wild  flower  nestling  in  a  bed  of  moss  could  bring  the 
quick  light  to  her  eyes.  Her  responsiveness  was  a  contin- 
ual delight  to  him  just  as  her  culture  was  his  despair.  Of 
books,  pictures,  and  music  she  knew  much  more  than  he. 

The  bus  jerked  down  Fifth  Avenue  like  a  boat  in 
heavy  seas,  pausing  here  and  there  at  the  curb  to  take  on 
a  passenger.  While  it  was  getting  under  way  after  one 
such  stop,  another  downtown  bus  rolled  past. 

Clay  came  to  a  sudden  alert  attention.  His  eyes 
focused  on  a  girl  sitting  on  a  back  seat.  In  the  pretty, 
childish  face  he  read  a  wistful  helplessness,  a  pathetic 
hint  of  misery  that  called  for  sympathy. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  65 

Arizona  takes  short  cuts  to  its  ends.  Clay  rose  in- 
stantly, put  his  foot  on  the  railing,  and  leaped  across  to 
the  top  of  the  bus  rolling  parallel  with  the  one  he  was  on. 
In  another  second  he  had  dropped  into  the  seat  beside 
the  girl. 

"Glad  to  meet  you  again,  Miss  Kitty,"  he  said  cheer^ 
fully.  "How's  the  big  town  been  using  you?" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  a  little  gasp  of  surprise. 
"Mr.  Lindsay!"  Sudden  tears  filmed  her  eyes.  She  for- 
got that  she  had  left  him  with  the  promise  never  again  to 
speak  to  him.  She  was  in  a  far  country,  and  he  was  a 
friend  from  home. 

The  conductor  bustled  down  the  aisle.  "Say,  where  do 
you  get  this  movie-stunt  stuff?  You  can't  jump  from  the 
top  of  one  bus  to  another." 

Clay  smiled  genially.  "I  can't,  but  I  did." 

"That  ain't  the  system  of  transfers  we  use  in  this 
town.  You  might  'a'  got  killed." 

"Oh,  well,  let's  not  worry  about  that  now." 

"I'd  ought  to  have  you  pulled.  Three  years  I've  been 
on  this  run  and  — " 

"Nice  run.  Wages  good?" 

"Don't  get  gay,  young  fellow.  I  can  tell  you  one  thing. 
You've  got  to  pay  another  fare." 

Clay  paid  it. 

The  conductor  retired  to  his  post.  He  grinned  in  spite 
of  his  official  dignity.  There  was  something  about  this 
young  fellow  he  Liked.  After  he  had  been  in  New  York 
awhile  he  would  be  properly  tamed. 

"What  about  that  movie  job?  Is  it  pannm'  out  pay 
gold?  "  Lindsay  asked  Kitty. 


56  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Bit  by  bit  her  story  came  out.  It  was  a  common 
enough  one.  She  had  been  flim-flammed  out  of  her  money 
by  the  alleged  school  of  moving-picture  actors,  and  the 
sharpers  had  decamped  with  it. 

As  she  looked  at  her  recovered  friend,  Kitty  gradually 
realized  an  outward  transformation  in  his  appearance. 
He  was  dressed  quietly  in  clothes  of  perfect  fit  made  for 
him  by  Colin  Whitford's  tailor.  From  shoes  to  hat  he 
was  a  New  Yorker  got  up  regardless  of  expense.  But  the 
warm  smile,  the  strong,  tanned  face,  the  grip  of  the  big 
brown  hand  that  buried  her  small  one  —  all  these  were 
from  her  own  West.  So  too  had  been  the  nonchalance 
with  which  he  had  stepped  from  the  rail  of  one  moving 
bus  to  that  of  the  other,  just  as  though  this  were  his 
usual  method  of  transfer. 

"I've  got  a  job  at  last,"  she  explained  to  him.  "I 
could  n't  hardly  find  one.  They  say  I  'm  not  trained  to 
do  anything." 

"What  sort  of  a  job  have  you?" 

"I'm  working  downtown  in  Greenwich  Village,  selling 
cigarettes.  I'm  Sylvia  the  Cigarette  Girl.  At  least  that's 
what  they  call  me.  I  carry  a  tray  of  them  evenings  into 
the  cafes." 

"Greenwich  Village?"  asked  Clay. 

Kitty  was  not  able  to  explain  that  the  Village  is  a 
state  of  mind  which  is  the  habitat  of  long-haired  men 
and  short-haired  women,  the  brains  of  whom  functioned 
in  a  way  totally  alien  to  all  her  methods  of  thought.  The 
meaning  of  Bohemianism  was  quite  lost  on  her  simple 
sou). 

"They're  just  queer,"  she  told  him.  "The  women  bob 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  57 

their  hair  and  wear  smocks  and  sandals.  The  men  are 
long-haired  softies.  They  all  talk  kinda  foolish."  Kitty 
despaired  of  making  the  situation  clear  to  him  and 
resorted  to  the  personal.  "Can't  you  come  down  to-night 
to  The  Purple  Pup  or  The  Sea  Siren  and  see  for  your- 
self? "  she  proposed,  and  gave  him  directions  for  find- 
ing the  classic  resorts. 

"I  reckon  they  must  be  medicine  fakirs,"  decided 
Clay.  "I've  met  up  with  these  long-haired  guys  before. 
Sure  I '11  come." 

"To-night?" 

"You  betcha,  little  pardner,  I'll  be  there." 

"I'm  dressed  silly  —  in  bare  feet  and  sandals  and 
what  they  call  a  smock.  You  won't  mind  that,  will  you?" 

"  You  '11  look  good  to  me,  no  matter  what  you  wear, 
little  Miss  Colorado,"  he  told  her  with  his  warm,  big 
brother's  smile. 

"You're  good,"  the  girl  said  simply.  "I  knew  that  on 
the  train  even  when  I  —  when  I  was  mean  to  you." 
There  came  into  her  voice  a  small  tremor  of  apprehen- 
sion. "I'm  afraid  of  this  town.  It's  so  —  so  kinda  cruel 
I've  got  no  friends  here." 

He  offered  instant  reassurance  with  a  strong  grip  of 
his  brown  hand.  "You've  got  one,  little  pardner.  I'll 
promise  that  one  big  husky  will  be  on  the  job  when  you 
need  him.  Don't  you  worry." 

She  gave  him  her  shy  eyes  gratefully.  There  was  a 
mist  of  tears  in  them. 

"You're  good,"  she  said  again  naively. 


CHAPTER  VII 
ARIZONA  FOLLOWS  ITS  LAWLESS  IMPULSE 

WHEN  Clay  two  hours  later  took  the  Sixth  Avenue  L  for 
a  plunge  into  Bohemianism  he  knew  no  more  about 
Greenwich  Village  than  a  six-months-old  pup  does 
about  Virgil.  But  it  was  characteristic  of  him  that  on  his 
way  downtown  he  proceeded  to  find  out  from  his  chance 
seat-mate  something  about  this  unknown  terrain  he  was 
about  to  visit. 

The  man  he  sat  beside  was  a  patrolman  off  duty,  and 
to  this  engaging  Westerner  he  was  quite  ready  to  impart 
any  information  he  might  have. 

"Fakirs,"  he  pronounced  promptly.  "They're  a 
bunch  of  long-haired  nuts,  most  of  'em  —  queer  guys 
who  can't  sell  their  junk  and  kid  themselves  into  think- 
ing they're  artists  and  writers.  They  pull  a  lot  of  stuff 
about  socialism  and  anarchy  and  high  art." 

"Just  harmless  cranks  —  gone  loco,  mebbe?" 

"Some  of  'em.  Others  are  there  for  the  mazuma. 
Uptown  the  Village  is  supposed  to  be  one  hell  of  a  place. 
The  people  who  own  the  dumps  down  there  have  wrorked 
up  that  rep  to  draw  the  night  trade.  They  make  a  living 
outa  the  wickedness  of  Greenwich.  Nothin'  to  it  —  all 
fake  stuff.  They  advertise  September  Morn  balls  with 
posters  something  fierce,  and  when  you  go  they  are  just 
Hke  any  other  dances.  Bum  drawings  of  naked  women 
on  the  walls  done  by  artist  yaps,  decorations  of  purple 
cows,  pirates'  dens  —  that 's  the  kind  of  dope  they  have." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  5f 

JThe  Sea  Siren  was  already  beginning  to  fill  up  when 
Clay  descended  three  steps  to  a  cellar  and  was  warily 
admitted.  A  near-Hawaiian  orchestra  was  strumming 
out  a  dance  tune  and  a  few  couples  were  on  the  floor. 
Waitresses,  got  up  as  Loreleis,  were  moving  about 
among  the  guests  delivering  orders  for  refreshments. 

The  Westerner  sat  down  in  a  corner  and  looked  about 
him.  The  walls  were  decorated  with  crude  purple  cray- 
ons of  underfed  sirens.  A  statue  of  a  nude  woman  dis- 
tressed Clay.  He  did  not  mind  the  missing  clothes,  but 
she  was  so  dreadfully  emaciated  that  he  thought  it  wise 
for  her  to  c'-ing  to  the  yellow-and-red  draped  barber  pole 
that  rose  from  the  pedestal.  On  the  base  was  the  legend, 
"The  Weeping  Lady."  After  he  had  tasted  the  Sea 
Siren  fare  the  man  from  Arizona  suspected  that  both 
her  grief  and  her  anaemia  arose  from  the  fact  that  she 
had  been  fed  on  it. 

A  man  in  artist's  velveteens,  minus  a  haircut,  with  a 
large,  fat,  pasty  face,  sat  at  an  adjoining  table  and 
discoursed  to  his  friends.  Presently,  during  an  intermis- 
sion of  the  music,  he  rose  and  took  the  rest  of  those  p 
ent  into  his  confidence.  With  rapt  eyes  on  the  faraway 
space  of  distant  planets  he  chanted  his  apologia. 

"I  believe  in  the  Cosmic  Urge,  in  the  Sublimity  of  my 
Ego.  I  follow  my  Lawless  Impulse  where  the  Gods  of 
Desire  shall  drive.  I  am  what  I  Am,  Son  of  the  Stars, 
Lord  of  my  Life.  With  Unleashed  Love  I  answer  the 
psychic  beat  of  Pulse  to  Pulse,  Laughter,  Tears  and 
Woe,  the  keen  edge  of  Passion,  the  Languor  of  Satiety: 
all  these  are  life.  Open-armed,  I  embrace  them.  I  drink 
and  assuage  my  thirst.  For  Youth  is  here  to-day.  To- 


60  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

morrow,  alas,  it  has  gone.  Now  I  am.  In  the  Then  I 
shall  not  be.  Kismet!" 

The  poet's  fine  frenzy  faded.  He  sank  back  into  his 
chair,  apparently  worn  out  by  his  vast  mental  effort. 

Clay  gave  a  deep  chuckle  of  delight.  This  was  good. 

"Heap  much  oration,"  he  murmured.  "Go  to  it,  old- 
timer.  Steam  off  again.  Git  down  in  yore  collar  to  it." 

To  miss  none  of  the  fun  he  hitched  a  little  closer  on 
the  bench.  But  the  man  without  the  haircut  was  through 
effervescing.  He  began  to  talk  in  a  lower  voice  on  world 
politics  to  admiring  friends  who  were  basking  in  his  re- 
flected glory. 

"Bourgeois  to  the  core,"  he  announced  with  finality, 
speaking  of  the  United  States,  in  answer  to  a  question. 
"What  are  the  idols  we  worship?  Law,  the  chain  which 
binds  an  enslaved  people;  thrift,  born  of  childish  fear; 
love  of  country,  which  is  another  name  for  crass  pro- 
vincialism. I  —  I  am  a  Cosmopolite,  not  an  American. 
Bohemia  is  my  land,  and  all  free  souls  are  my  brothers, 
Why  should  I  get  wrinkles  because  Germany  sunk  the 
Lusitania  a  month  or  two  ago?  That's  her  business,  not 
mine." 

Clay  leaned  forward  on  a  search  for  information. 
"Excuse  me  for  buttin'  in,  and  me  a  stranger.  But  is  n't 
it  yore  business  when  she  murders  American  women  and 
children?" 

The  pasty-faced  man  looked  at  him  with  thinly  dis- 
guised contempt.  "You  wouldn't  understand  if  I  ex- 
plained." 

"Mebbeso  I  would  n't,  but  you  take  a  whirl  at  it  and 
1*11  listen  high,  wide,  and  handsome." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  61 

The  man  in  velveteens  unexpectedly  found  himself 
doing  as  he  was  told.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  compul- 
sion about  the  gray-blue  eyes  fastened  on  his,  some- 
thing in  the  clamp  of  the  strong  jaw  that  brought  him 
up  for  a  moment  against  stark  reality. 

"The  intelligentsia  of  a  country  knows  that  there  can 
be  no  freedom  until  there  is  no  law.  Every  man's  duty  is 
to  disregard  duty.  So,  by  faring  far  on  the  wings  of  de- 
sire, he  helps  break  down  the  slavery  that  binds  us. 
Obey  the  Cosmic  Urge  of  your  soul  regardless  of  where  il 
leads  you,  young  man." 

It  was  unfortunate  for  the  poet  of  Bohemia  that  at 
this  precise  moment  Kitty  Mason,  dressed  in  sandals 
and  a  lilac-patterned  smock,  stood  before  him  with  a 
tray  of  cigarettes  asking  for  his  trade.  The  nai've  appeal 
in  her  soft  eyes  had  its  weight  with  the  poet.  What  is  the 
use  of  living  in  Bohemia  if  one  cannot  be  free  to  follow 
impulse?  He  slipped  an  arm  about  the  girl  and  kissed  the 
crimson  lips  upturned  to  him. 

Kitty  started  back  with  a  little  cry  of  distress. 

The  freedom  taken  by  the  near-poet  was  instantly 
avenged. 

A  Cosmic  Urge  beat  in  the  veins  of  the  savage  from 
Arizona.  He  took  the  poet's  advice  and  followed  his 
Lawless  Impulse  where  it  led.  Across  the  table  a  long 
arm  reached.  Sinewy  fingers  closed  upon  the  flowing  neck- 
wear of  the  fat-faced  orator  and  dragged  him  forward, 
leaving  overturned  glasses  in  the  wake  of  his  course. 

The  man  in  velveteens  met  the  eyes  of  the  energetic 
manhandler  and  quailed.  This  brown-faced  barbarian 
looked  very  much  like  business. 


62  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Don't  you  touch  me !  Don't  you  dare  touch  me ! "  the 
apostle  of  anarchy  shrilled  as  the  table  crashed  down. 
"I'll  turn  you  over  to  the  police!" 

Clay  jerked  him  to  his  feet.  Hard  knuckles  pressed 
cruelly  into  the  soft  throat  of  the  Villager.  "Git  down  on 
yore  ham  bones  and  beg  the  lady's  pardon,  Son  of  the 
Stars,  or  I  '11  sure  make  you  see  a  whole  colony  of  yore 
ancestors.  Tell  her  you're  a  yellow  pup,  but  you  don't 
reckon  you'll  ever  pull  a  bone  like  that  again.  Speak 
right  out  in  meetin'  pronto  before  you  bump  into  the 
tears  and  woe  you  was  makin'  heap  much  oration  about/* 

The  proprietor  of  the  cafe  seized  the  cowpuncher  by 
the  arm  hurriedly.  "Here,  stop  that!  You  get  out  of  the 
place!  I'll  not  stand  for  any  rough-house."  And  he  mur- 
mured something  about  getting  in  bad  with  the  police. 

Clay  tried  to  explain.  "Me,  I'm  not  rough-housing. 
I'm  tellin'  this  here  Lord  of  Life  to  apologize  to  the 
little  lady  and  let  her  know  that  he's  sorry  he  was  fresh. 
If  he  don't  I'll  most  ce'tainly  muss  up  the  Sublimity  of 
his  Ego." 

The  companions  of  the  poet  rushed  forward  to  protest 
at  the  manhandling  of  their  leader.  Those  in  the  rear 
jammed  the  front  ones  close  to  Clay  and  his  captive.  The 
cowpuncher  gently  but  strongly  pushed  them  back. 

"Don't  get  on  the  prod,"  he  advised  in  his  genial 
drawl.  "The  poet  he's  got  an  important  engagement 
right  now." 

A  kind  of  scuffle  developed.  The  proprietor  increased 
it  by  his  hysterical  efforts  to  prevent  any  trouble.  Men 
joined  themselves  to  the  noisy  group  of  which  Clay  was 
the  smiling  center.  The  excitement  increased.  Distant 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  63 

corners  of  the  room  became  the  refuge  of  the  women. 
Some  one  struck  at  the  cowpuncher  over  the  heads  of 
those  about  him.  The  mass  of  closely  packed  human 
beings  showed  a  convulsive  activity.  It  became  suddenly 
the  most  popular  indoor  sport  at  the  Sea  Siren  to  slay 
this  barbarian  from  the  desert  who  had  interfered  with 
the  amusements  of  Bohemia. 

But  Clay  took  a  lot  of  slaying.  In  the  rough-and- 
tumble  life  of  the  outdoor  West  he  had  learned  how  to 
look  out  for  his  own  hand.  The  copper  hair  of  his  strong 
lean  head  rose  above  the  tangle  of  the  mclce  like  the 
bromidic  Helmet  of  Navarre.  A  reckless  light  of  mirth 
bubbled  in  his  dare-devil  eyes.  The  very  number  of  the 
opponents  who  interfered  with  each  other  trying  to  get 
at  him  was  a  guarantee  of  safety.  The  blows  showered  at 
him  lacked  steam  and  were  badly  timed  as  to  distance. 

The  paek  rolled  across  the  room,  tipped  over  a  table, 
and  deluged  an  artist  and  his  affinity  with  hot  chocolate 
before  they  could  escape  from  the  avalanche.  Chairs 
went  over  like  ninepins.  Stands  collapsed.  Men  grunted 
and  shouted  advice.  Girls  screamed.  The  Sea  Siren  was 
being  wrecked  by  a  cyclone  from  the  bad  lands. 

Against  the  wall  the  struggling  mob  brought  up  with 
a  crash.  The  velveteen  poet  caught  at  "The  Weeping 
Lady"  to  save  himself  from  going  down.  She  descended 
from  her  pedestal  into  his  arms  and  henceforth  waltzed 
with  him  as  a  part  of  the  subsequent  proceedings. 

The  writhing  mass  caromed  from  the  wall  and  re- 
volved toward  the  musicians.  A  colored  gentleman 
jumped  up  in  alarm  and  brandished  his  instrument  as  & 
weapon. 


64  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND  UP 

"Keep  away  from  this  heah  niggah!"  he  warned,  and 
simultaneously  he  aimed  the  drum  of  the  mandolin  at 
the  red  head  which  was  the  core  of  the  tangle.  His  aim 
was  deflected  and  the  wood  crashed  down  upon  the 
crown  of  "The  Weeping  Lady."  For  the  rest  of  the 
two-step  it  hung  like  a  large  ruff  around  her  neck. 

Arms  threshed  wildly  to  and  fro.  The  focal  point  of 
their  destination  was  the  figure  at  the  center  of  the  dis- 
turbance. Most  of  the  blows  found  other  marks.  Four  or 
five  men  could  have  demolished  Clay.  Fifteen  or  twenty 
found  it  a  tough  job  because  they  interfered  with  each 
other  at  every  turn.  They  were  packed  too  close  for 
hard  hitting.  Clay  was  not  fighting  but  wrestling.  He 
used  his  arms  to  push  with  rather  than  to  strike 
blows  that  counted. 

The  Arizonan  could  not  afterward  remember  at  ex- 
actly what  stage  of  the  proceedings  the  face  of  Jerry 
Durand  impinged  itself  on  his  consciousness.  Once,  when 
the  swirl  of  the  crowd  flung  him  close  to  the  door,  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it,  tight-lipped  and  wolf -eyed,  turned 
to  him  with  relentless  malice.  The  gang  leader  was  tak- 
ing no  part  in  the  fight. 

The  crowd  parted.  Out  of  the  pack  a  pair  of  strong 
arms  and  lean  broad  shoulders  ploughed  a  way  for  a 
somewhat  damaged  face  that  still  carried  a  debonair 
smile.  With  pantherish  litheness  the  Arizonan  ducked  a 
swinging  blow.  The  rippling  muscles  of  the  plunging 
shoulders  tossed  aside  a  little  man  in  evening  dress 
clawing  at  him.  Yet  a  moment,  and  he  was  outside  tak- 
ing the  three  steps  that  led  to  the  street. 

Into  his  laboring  lungs  he  drew  deliciously  the  soft 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  65 

breath  of  the  night.  It  cooled  the  fever  of  his  hammered 
face,  was  like  an  icy  bath  to  his  hot  body.  A  little  dizzy 
from  the  blows  that  had  been  rained  on  him,  he  stood 
for  a  moment  uncertain  which  way  to  go.  From  his 
throat  there  rippled  a  low  peal  of  joyous  mirth.  The 
youth  in  him  delighted  in  the  free-for-all  from  which  he 
had  just  emerged. 

Then  again  he  became  aware  of  Durand.  The  man  was 
not  alone.  He  had  with  him  a  hulking  ruffian  whose 
heavy,  hunched  shoulders  told  of  strength.  There  was  a 
hint  of  the  gorilla  in  the  way  the  long  arms  hung  straight 
from  the  shoulders  as  he  leaned  forward.  Both  of  the 
men  were  watching  the  cowpuncher  as  steadily  as  alley 
cats  do  a  housefinch. 

"Hell's  going  to  pop  in  about  three  seconds,"  an- 
nounced Clay  to  himself. 

Silently,  without  lifting  their  eyes  from  their  victim 
for  an  instant,  the  two  men  moved  apart  to  take  him  on 
both  sides.  He  clung  to  the  wall,  forcing  a  frontal  attack. 
The  laughter  had  gone  out  of  his  eyes  now.  They  had 
hardened  to  pinpoints.  This  time  it  was  no  amateur 
horseplay.  He  was  fighting  for  his  life.  No  need  to  tell 
Clay  Lindsay  that  the  New  York  gangster  meant  to 
leave  him  as  good  as  dead. 

The  men  rushed  him.  He  fought  them  back  with  clean 
hard  blows.  Jerry  bored  in  like  a  wild  bull.  Clay  caught 
him  off  his  balance,  using  a  short  arm  jolt  which  had 
back  of  it  all  that  twenty-three  years  of  clean  outdoors 
Arizona  could  give.  The  gangster  hit  the  pavement 
hard. 

He  got  up  furious  and  charged  again.  The  Arizonan, 


6C  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

busy  with  the  other  man,  tried  to  sidestep.  An  uppercut 
jarred  him  to  the  heel.  In  that  instant  of  time  before  his 
knees  began  to  sag  beneath  him  his  brain  flashed  the 
news  that  Durand  had  struck  him  on  the  chin  with  brass 
knucks.  He  crumpled  up  and  went  down,  still  alive  to 
what  was  going  on,  but  unable  to  move  in  his  own  de- 
fense. Weakly  he  tried  to  protect  his  face  and  sides  from 
the  kicks  of  a  heavy  boot.  Then  he  floated  balloon-like  in 
space  and  vanished  into  unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER 
"THE  BEST  SINGLE-BARRELED  SPORT  IVER  I  MET" 

CLAY  drifted  back  to  a  world  in  which  the  machinery  of 
his  body  creaked.  He  turned  his  head,  and  a  racking 
pain  shot  down  his  neck.  He  moved  a  leg,  and  every 
muscle  in  it  ached.  From  head  to  foot  he  was  sore. 

Voices  somewhere  in  space,  detached  from  any  per- 
sonal ownership,  floated  vaguely  to  him.  Presently 
these  resolved  themselves  into  words  and  sentences. 

"  We  're  not  to  make  a  pinch,  Tim.  That's  the  word  he 
gave  me  before  he  left.  This  is  wan  av  Jerry's  private 
little  wars  and  he  don't  want  a  judge  askin'  a  lot  of 
unnicessary  questions,  y'  understand." 

"Mother  av  Moses,  if  this  he-man  from  Hell's  Hinges 
had  n't  the  luck  av  the  Irish,  there 'd  be  questions  a- 
plenty  asked.  He  'd  be  ready  for  the  morgue  this  blissed 
minute.  Jerry 's  a  murderin'  divvle.  When  I  breeze  in  I 
find  him  croakin'  this  lad  proper  and  he  acts  like  a  crazy 
man  when  I  stand  him  and  Gorilla  Dave  off  till  yuh 
come  a-runnin'.  At  that  they  may  have  given  the  bye 
more  than  he  can  carry.  Maybe  it'll  be  roses  and  a  nice 
black  carriage  for  him  yet." 

The  other  policeman,  a  sergeant  —  by  this  time  the 
voices  had  localized  themselves  in  persons  —  laughed 
with  reluctant  admiration. 

"Him!  He's  got  siven  lives  like  a  cat.  Take  a  look  at 
the  Sea  Siren,  Tim.  'T  is  kindling  the  lad  has  made  of  the 
place.  The  man  that  runs  the  dump  put  up  a  poor 


68  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

mouth,  but  I  told  him  and  the  nuts  that  crowded  round 
squawkin1  for  an  arrest  that  if  they  hollered  the  police 
would  close  the  place  and  pull  the  whole  bunch  for  dis- 
orderly conduct.  They  melted  away,  believe  me."  He 
added,  with  an  access  of  interest,  "  Yuh 've  heard  the 
byes  tell  the  story  of  the  rube  that  tied  up  the  Swede 
janitor  on  the  Drive  into  a  knot  with  his  own  hose. 
This '11  be  the  same  lad,  I'm  thinkin'." 

The  other  nodded.  He  was  bending  over  Clay  and 
sprinkling  water  on  his  face.  "He'll  be  black  and  blue 
ivery  inch  of  him,  but  his  eyelids  are  flickering.  Jerry's 
an  ill  man  to  cross,  I  've  heard  teli.  Yuh  'd  think  this  lad 
had  had  enough.  But  Jerry's  still  red-eyed  about  him 
and  swears  they  can't  both  live  in  the  same  town.  You'll 
remember  likely  how  Durand  did  for  Paddy  Kelly?  It 
was  before  my  time.'* 

"Yuh 're  a  chump  copper,  Tim  Muldoon,  else  yuh'd 
know  we  don't  talk  about  that  in  the  open  street.  Jerry 
has  long  ears,"  the  older  man  warned,  lowering  his 
voice. 

Clay  opened  his  eyes,  flexed  his  arm  muscles,  and 
groaned.  He  caressed  tenderly  his  aching  ribs. 

"Some  wreck,"  he  gasped  weakly.  "'They  did  n't  do  a 
thing  to  me  —  outside  of  beatin'  me  up  —  and  stompin* 
on  me  —  and  runnin'  a  steam  roller  —  over  the  dear  de- 
parted." 

"Whose  fault  will  that  be?  Don't  yuh  know  better 
than  to  start  a  fight  with  a  rigiment?"  demanded  the 
sergeant  of  police  severely. 

"That  was  n't  a  fight.  It  was  a  waltz."  The  faint,  un- 
conquered  smile  of  brown  Arizona  broke  through  the 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  69 

blood  and  bruises  of  the  face.  "The  fight  began  when 
Jerry  Durand  and  his  friend  rushed  me  —  and  it  ended 
when  Jerry  landed  on  me  with  brass  knucks.  After  that  I 
was  a  football."  The  words  canie  in  gasps.  Every  breath 
was  drawn  in  pain. 

''  We  'd  ought  to  pinch  yuh,"  the  sergeant  said  by  way 
of  reprimand.  "Think  yuh  can  come  to  New  York  and 
pull  your  small-town  stuff  on  us?  We'll  show  youse.  If 
yuh  was  n't  alfalfa  green  I'd  give  yuh  a  ride." 

"You  mean  if  Durand  had  n't  whispered  in  yore  ear. 
I'll  call  that  bluff,  sheriff.  Take  me  to  yore  calaboose. 
I've  got  one  or  two  things  to  tell  the  judge  about  this 
guy  Durand." 

The  officer  dropped  his  grumbling  complaint  to  a 
whisper.  "Whisht,  bye.  Take  a  straight  tip  from  a  man 
that  knows.  Beat  it  out  of  town.  Get  where  the  long  arm 
of  —  of  a  friend  of  ours  —  can't  reach  yuh.  Yuh  may 
be  a  straight  guy,  but  that  won't  help  yuh.  Yuh '11  be 
framed  the  same  as  if  yuh  was  a  greengoods  man  or  a 
gopher  or  a  porch-climber.  He's  a  revingeful  incmy  if 
ever  there  was  wan." 

"You  mean  that  Durand  — 

"I'm  not  namin'  names,"  the  officer  interrupted 
doggedly.  "I'm  tellin'  yuh  somethin'  for  your  good. 
Take  it  or  leave  it." 

"Thanks,  I'll  leave  it.  This  is  a  free  country,  and  no 
man  livin'  can  drive  me  away,"  answered  Clay  promptly. 
"Ouch,  I'm  sore.  Give  me  a  lift,  sergeant." 

They  helped  the  cowpuncher  to  his  feet.  He  took  a 
limping  step  or  two.  Every  move  was  torture  to  his  out- 
raged flesh. 


70  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Can  you  get  me  a  taxi?  That  is,  if  you're  sure  you 
don't  want  me  in  yore  calaboose,"  the  range-rider  said, 
leaning  against  the  wall. 

"We'll  let  yuh  go  this  time." 

"Much  obliged  —  to  Mr.  Jerry  Durand.  Tell  him  for 
me  that  maybe  I'll  meet  up  with  him  again  sometime 
—  and  hand  him  my  thanks  personal  for  this  first-class 
wallopin'."  From  the  bruised,  bleeding  face  there  beamed 
again  the  smile  indomitable,  the  grin  still  gay  and  win- 
ning. Physically  he  had  been  badly  beaten,  but  in  spirit 
he  was  still  the  man  on  horseback. 

Presently  he  eased  himself  into  a  taxi  as  comfortably 
as  he  could.  "Home,  James,"  he  said  jauntily. 

"Where?"  asked  the  driver. 

"The  nearest  hospital,"  explained  Clay.  "I'm  goin* 
to  let  the  doctors  worry  over  me  for  a  while.  Much 
obliged  to  both  of  you  gentlemen.  I  always  did  like  the 
Irish.  Friend  Jerry  is  an  exception." 

The  officers  watched  the  cab  disappear.  The  sergeant 
spoke  the  comment  that  was  in  the  mind  of  them 
both. 

"He's  the  best  single-barreled  sport  that  iver  I  met 
in  this  man's  town.  Not  a  whimper  out  of  the  guy  and 
him  mauled  to  a  pulp.  Game  as  they  come.  Did  youse 
see  that  spark  o'  the  divvle  in  his  eye,  and  him  not  fit  to 
crawl  into  the  cab?" 

"Did  I  see  it?  I  did  that.  If  iver  they  meet  man  to 
man,  him  and  Jerry,  it'll  be  wan  grand  little  fight." 

"Jerry's  the  best  rough-and-tumble  fighter  on  the 
island." 

"Wan  av  the  best.  I  would  n't  put  him  first  till  after 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  71 

him  and  this  guy  had  met  alone  in  a  locked  room.  S  'long, 
Mike." 

"S'long,  Tim.  No  report  on  this  rough-house,  mind 
yuh." 

"Sure,  Mike." 


CHAPTER  IX 
BEATRICE  UP  STAGE 

IF  you  vision  Clay  as  a  man  of  battles  and  violent  death, 
you  don't  see  him  as  he  saw  himself.  He  was  a  peaceful 
citizen  from  the  law-abiding  West.  It  was  not  until  he 
had  been  flung  into  the  whirlpool  of  New  York  that 
violent  and  melodramatic  mishaps  befell  this  innocent. 
The  Wild  East  had  trapped  him  into  weird  adventure 
foreign  to  his  nature. 

This  was  the  version  of  himself  that  he  conceived  to 
be  true  and  the  one  he  tried  to  interpret  to  Bee  Whitford 
when  he  emerged  from  the  hospital  after  two  days  of 
seclusion  and  presented  himself  before  her. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Beatrice  that  when  she  looked 
at  hia  battered  face  she  asked  no  questions  and  made  no 
exclamations.  After  the  first  startled  glance  one  might 
have  thought  from  her  expression  that  he  habitually 
wore  one  black  eye,  one  swollen  lip,  one  cauliflower  ear, 
and  a  strip  of  gauze  across  his  cheek. 

The  dark-lashed  eyes  lifted  from  him  to  take  on  a 
business-like  directness.  She  rang  for  the  man. 

"Have  the  runabout  brought  round  at  once,  Stevens. 
I'll  drive  myself,"  she  gave  orders. 

With  the  light  ease  that  looked  silken  strong  she 
swept  the  car  into  the  Park.  Neither  she  nor  Clay  talked. 
Both  of  them  knew  that  an  explanation  of  his  appear- 
ance was  due  her  and  in  the  meantime  neither  cared  to 
fence  with  small  talk.  He  watched  without  appearing  to 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  73 

do  so  the  slender  girl  in  white  at  the  wheel.  Her  motions 
delighted  him.  There  was  a  very  winning  charm  in  the 
softly  curving  contours  of  her  face,  in  that  flowerlike 
and  precious  quality  in  her  personality  which  lay  back  of 
her  boyish  comradeship. 

She  drew  up  to  look  at  some  pond  lilies,  and  they 
talked  about  them  for  a  moment,  after  which  her  direct 
eyes  questioned  him  frankly. 

He  painted  with  a  light  brush  the  picture  of  his  adven- 
ture into  Bohemia.  The  details  he  filled  in  whimsically, 
in  the  picturesque  phraseology  of  the  West.  Up  stage  on 
his  canvas  was  the  figure  of  the  poet  in  velveteens.  That 
Son  of  the  Stars  he  did  full  justice.  Jerry  Durand  and 
Kitty  Mason  were  accessories  sketched  casually. 

Even  while  her  face  bubbled  with  mirth  at  his  story  of 
the  improvised  tango  that  had  wrecked  the  Sea  Siren, 
the  quick  young  eyes  of  the  girl  were  taking  in  the  com- 
pelling devil-may-care  charm  of  Lindsay.  Battered 
though  he  was,  the  splendid  vigor  of  the  man  still 
showed  in  a  certain  tigerish  litheness  that  sore,  stiff  mus- 
cles could  not  conceal.  No  young  Greek  god's  head  could 
have  risen  more  superbly  from  the  brick-tanned  column 
of  his  neck  than  did  this  bronzed  one. 

"I  gather  that  Mr.  Lindsay  of  Arizona  was  among 
those  present,"  Beatrice  said,  smiling. 

"I  was  givin'  the  dance,"  he  agreed,  and  his  gay  eyes 
met  hers. 

Since  she  was  a  woman,  one  phase  of  his  story  needed 
expansion  for  Miss  Whitford.  She  made  her  comment 
carelessly  while  she  adjusted  the  mileage  on  the  speed- 
ometer. 


74  THE  BIG-TOWN  BOUND-UP 

"Queer  you  happened  to  meet  some  one  you  knew 
down  there.  You  did  say  you  knew  the  girl,  didn't 
you?" 

"We  were  on  the  same  train  out  of  Denver.  I  got  ac- 
quainted with  her." 

Miss  Whitford  asked  no  more  questions.  But  Clay 
could  not  quite  let  the  matter  stand  so.  He  wanted  her  to 
justify  him  in  her  mind  for  what  he  had  done.  Before  he 
knew  it  he  had  told  her  the  story  of  Kitty  Mason  and 
Durand. 

Nor  did  this  draw  any  criticism  of  approval  or  the 
reverse. 

"I  could  n't  let  him  hypnotize  that  little  girl  from  the 
country,  could  I?"  he  asked. 

"I  suppose  not."  Her  whole  face  began  to  bubble  with 
laughter  in  the  way  he  liked  so  well.  "But  you'll  be  a 
busy  knight  errant  if  you  undertake  to  right  the  wrongs 
of  every  girl  you  meet  in  New  York."  A  dimple  flashed 
near  the  corner  of  her  mouth.  "Of  course  she's  pretty." 

"Well,  yes.  She  is  right  pretty." 

"Describe  her  to  me." 

He  made  a  lame  attempt.  Out  of  his  tangled  sentences 
she  picked  on  some  fragments.  "...  blooms  like  a  chero- 
kee  rose  .  .  .  soft  like  a  kitten." 

"I'm  glad  she's  so  charming.  That  excuses  any  indis- 
cretion," the  girl  said  with  a  gleam  of  friendly  malice. 
"There's  no  fun  in  rescuing  the  plain  ones,  is  there?" 

"They  don't  most  usually  need  so  much  rescuin'," 
Clay  admitted. 

"Don't  you  think  it  possible  that  you  rescued  her  out 
of  a  job?" 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  71 

The  young  man  nodded  his  head  ruefully.  "That's 
exactly  what  I  did.  After  all  her  trouble  gettin'  one  I've 
thrown  her  out  again.  I'm  a  sure-enough  fathead." 

"You've  been  down  to  find  out?"  she  asked  with  a 
sidelong  tilt  of  her  quick  eyes. 

"Yes.  I  went  down  this  mawnin'  with  Tim  Muldoon. 
He's  a  policeman  I  met  down  there.  Miss  Kitty  has  n't 
been  seen  since  that  night.  We  went  out  to  the  Pirate's 
Den,  the  Purple  Pup,  Grace  Godwin's  Garret,  and  all 
the  places  where  she  used  to  sell  cigarettes.  None  of  them 
have  seen  anything  of  her." 

"So  that  really  your  championship  hasn't  been  so 
great  a  help  to  her  after  all,  has  it?" 

"No." 

"And  I  suppose  it  ruined  the  business  of  the  man  that 
owns  the  Sea  Siren." 

"I  don't  reckon  so.  I've  settled  for  the  furniture.  And 
Muldoon  says  when  it  gets  goin'  again  the  Sea  Siren  wiH 
do  a  big  business  on  account  of  the  fracas.  It's  Kitty 
I'm  worried  about." 

"She's  a  kind  of  cuddly  little  girl  who  needs  the  pro- 
tection of  some  nice  man,  you  say?" 

"That's  right." 

The  eyes  of  Miss  Whitford  were  unfathomable. 
"Fluffy  and  —  kind  of  helpless." 

"Yes." 

"I  wouldn't  worry  about  her  if  I  were  you.  Shell 
land  on  her  feet,"  the  girl  said  lightly. 

Her  voice  had  not  lost  its  sweet  cadences,  but  Clay 
sensed  in  it  something  that  was  almost  a  touch  of  cool 
contempt.  He  felt  vaguely  that  he  must  have  blundered 


W  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

in  describing  Kitty.  Evidently  Miss  Whitford  did  not 
see  her  quite  as  she  was. 

The  young  woman  pressed  the  starter  button.  "We 
must  be  going  home.  I  have  an  engagement  to  go  riding 
with  Mr.  Bromfield." 

The  man  beside  the  girl  kept  his  smile  working  and 
concealed  the  little  stab  of  jealousy  that  dirked  him. 
Colin  Whitford  had  confided  to  Lindsay  that  his  daugh- 
ter was  practically  engaged  to  Clarendon  Bromfield  and 
that  he  did  not  like  the  man.  The  range-rider  did  not 
like  him  either,  but  he  tried  loyally  to  kill  his  distrust  of 
the  clubman.  If  Beatrice  loved  him  there  must  be  good 
in  the  fellow.  Clay  meant  to  be  a  good  loser  anyhow. 

There  had  been  moments  when  the  range-rider's 
heart  had  quickened  with  a  wild,  insurgent  hope.  One  of 
these  had  been  on  a  morning  when  they  were  riding  in 
the  Park,  knee  to  knee,  in  the  dawn  of  a  new  clean 
world.  It  had  come  to  him  with  a  sudden  clamor  of  the 
blood  that  in  the  eternal  Tightness  of  things  such  morn- 
ings ought  to  be  theirs  till  the  youth  in  them  was 
quenched  in  sober  age.  He  had  looked  into  the  eyes  of 
this  slim  young  Diana,  and  he  had  throbbed  to  the  cer- 
tainty that  she  too  in  that  moment  of  tangled  glances 
knew  a  sweet  confusion  of  the  blood.  In  her  cheeks  there 
had  been  a  quick  flame  of  flying  color.  Their  talk  had 
fallen  from  them,  and  they  had  ridden  in  a  shy,  exquisite 
silence  from  which  she  had  escaped  by  putting  her  horse 
to  a  canter. 

But  in  the  sober  sense  of  sanity  Clay  knew  that  this 
wonderful  thing  was  not  going  to  happen  to  him.  He  was 
not  going  to  be  given  her  happiness  to  hold  in  the  hollow 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  77 

•f  his  hand.  Bee  Whitford  was  a  modern  young  woman, 
practical-minded,  with  a  proper  sense  of  the  values  that 
the  world  esteems.  Clarendon  Bromfield  was  a  catch 
even  in  New  York.  He  was  rich,  of  a  good  family,  assured 
social  position,  good-looking,  and  manifestly  in  love  with 
her.  Like  gravitates  to  like  the  land  over.  Miracles  no 
longer  happen  in  this  workaday  world.  She  would  marry 
the  man  a  hundred  other  girls  would  have  given  all  they 
had  to  win,  and  perhaps  in  the  long  years  ahead  she 
might  look  back  with  a  little  sigh  for  the  wild  colt  of  the 
desert  who  had  shared  some  perfect  moments  with  her 
once  upon  a  time. 

Bromfield,  too,  had  no  doubt  that  Bee  meant  to 
marry  him.  He  was  in  love  with  her  as  far  as  he  could  be 
with  anybody  except  himself.  His  heart  was  crusted 
with  selfishness.  He  had  lived  for  himself  only  and  he 
meant  to  continue  so  to  live.  But  he  had  burned  out  his 
first  youth.  He  was  coming  to  the  years  when  dissipation 
was  beginning  to  take  its  toll  of  him.  And  as  he  looked 
into  the  future  it  seemed  to  him  an  eminently  desirable 
thing  that  the  fresh,  eager  beauty  of  this  girl  should  be- 
long to  him,  that  her  devotion  should  stand  as  a  shield 
between  him  and  that  middle  age  with  which  he  was 
already  skirmishing.  He  wanted  her  —  the  youth,  the 
buoyant  life,  the  gay,  glad  comradeship  of  her  —  and  he 
had  always  been  lucky  in  getting  what  he  desired.  That 
was  the  use  of  having  been  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in 
his  mouth. 

But  though  Clarendon  Bromfield  had  no  doubt  of  the 
issue  of  his  suit,  the  friendship  of  Beatrice  for  this  fellow 
from  Arizona  stabbed  his  vanity.  It  hurt  his  class  pride 


78  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

and  his  personal  self-esteem  that  she  should  take  pleas* 
ure  in  the  man's  society.  Bee  never  had  been  well  broken 
to  harness.  He  set  his  thin  lips  tight  and  resolved  that  he 
would  stand  no  nonsense  of  this  sort  after  they  were 
married.  If  she  wanted  to  flirt  it  would  have  to  be  with 
some  one  in  their  own  set. 

The  clubman  was  too  wise  to  voice  his  objections  now 
except  by  an  occasional  slur.  But  he  found  it  necessary 
sometimes  to  put  a  curb  on  his  temper.  The  thing  was 
outrageous  —  damnably  bad  form.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  girl  was  gratuitously  irritating  him  by 
flaunting  this  bounder  in  his  face.  He  could  not  under- 
stand it  in  her.  She  ought  to  know  that  this  man  did  not 
belong  to  her  world  —  could  not  by  any  chance  be  a 
part  of  it. 

Beatrice  could  not  understand  herself.  She  knew  that 
she  was  behaving  rather  indiscreetly,  though  she  did  not 
fathom  the  cause  of  the  restlessness  that  drove  her  to 
Clay  Lindsay.  The  truth  is  that  she  was  longing  for  an 
escape  from  the  empty  life  she  was  leading,  had  been 
seeking  one  for  years  without  knowing  it.  Her  existence 
was  losing  its  savor,  and  she  was  still  so  young  and  eager 
and  keen  to  live.  Surely  this  round  of  social  frivolities, 
the  chatter  of  these  silly  women  and  smug  tailor-made 
men,  could  not  be  all  there  was  to  life.  She  must  have 
been  made  for  something  better  than  that. 

And  when  she  was  with  Clay  she  knew  she  had  been. 
He  gave  her  a  vision  of  life  through  eyes  that  had 
known  open,  wide  spaces,  clean,  wholesome,  and  sun- 
kissed.  He  stood  on  his  own  feet  and  did  his  own  think- 
ing. Simply,  with  both  hands,  he  took  hold  of  problems 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  79 

and  examined  them  stripped  of  all  trimmings.  The  man 
was  elemental,  but  he  was  keen  and  broad-gauged.  He 
knew  the  value  of  the  things  he  had  missed.  She  was 
increasingly  surprised  to  discover  how  wide  his  infor- 
mation was.  It  amazed  her  one  day  to  learn  that  he 
had  read  William  James  and  understood  his  philoso- 
phy much  better  than  she  did. 

There  was  in  her  mind  no  intention  whatever  of  let- 
ting herself  do  anything  so  foolish  as  to  marry  him.  But 
there  were  moments  when  the  thought  of  it  had  a  dread- 
ful fascination  for  her.  She  did  not  invite  such  thoughts 
to  remain  with  her. 

For  she  meant  to  accept  Clarendon  Bromfield  in  her 
own  good  time  and  make  her  social  position  in  New 
York  absolutely  secure.  She  had  been  in  the  fringes  too 
long  not  to  appreciate  a  chance  to  get  into  the  social 
Holy  of  Holies. 


CHAPTER  X 
JOHNNIE  SEES  THE  POSTMASTER 

A  BOW-LEGGED  little  man  in  a  cheap,  wrinkled  sui^.  v/ith 
a  silk  kerchief  knotted  loosely  round  his  neck  stopped  in 
front  of  a  window  \\  here  a  girl  was  selling  stamps. 

"  I  wantta  see  the  postmaster." 

"Corrid'y' right.  Takel'vatorthir'doorleft,"  she  said, 
just  as  though  it  were  two  words. 

The  freckle-faced  little  fellow  opened  wider  his  skim- 
milk  eyes  and  his  weak  mouth.  "'Come  again,  ma'am, 
please." 

"Corridy right.  Takel'vatorthir'doorleft,"  she  re- 
peated. "Next." 

The  inquirer  knew  as  much  as  he  did  before,  but  he 
lacked  the  courage  to  ask  for  an  English  translation. 
A  woman  behind  was  prodding  him  between  the  shoul- 
der-blades with  the  sharp  edge  of  a  package  wrapped  for 
mailing.  He  shuffled  away  from  the  window  and  wan- 
dered helplessly,  swept  up  by  the  tide  of  hurrying  people 
that  flowed  continuously  into  the  building  and  ebbed  out 
of  it.  From  this  he  was  tossed  into  a  backwater  that 
brought  him  to  another  window. 

"I  wantta  see  the  postmaster  of  this  burg,"  he  an- 
nounced again  with  a  plaintive  whine. 

"What  about?"  asked  the  man  back  of  the  grating. 

"Important  business,  amigo.  Where's  he  at?" 

The  man  directed  him  to  a  door  upon  which  was 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  81 

printed  the  legend,  "Superintendent  of  Complaints.'* 
Inside,  a  man  was  dictating  a  letter  to  a  stenographer 
The  bow-legged  man  in  the  wrinkled  suit  waited  awk- 
wardly until  the  letter  was  finished,  twirling  in  his  hands 
a  white,  broad-rimmed  hat  with  pinched-in  crown.  He 
was  chewing  tobacco.  He  wondered  whether  it  would  be 
"etiquette"  to  squirt  the  juice  into  a  waste-paper 
basket  standing  conveniently  near. 

"Well,  sir!  What  can  I  do  for  you?"  the  man  behind 
the  big  desk  snapped. 

"  I  wantta  see  the  postmaster." 

"What  about?" 

"I  got  important  business  with  him." 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Me,  I'm  Johnnie  Green  of  the  B-in-a-Box  Ranch.  I 
just  drapped  in  from  Arizona  and  I  wantta  see  the  post- 
master." 

"Suppose  you  tell  your  troubles  to  me." 

Johnnie  changed  his  weight  to  the  other  foot.  "No, 
suh,  I  allow  to  see  the  postmaster  himself  personal." 

"He's  busy,"  explained  the  official.  "He  can't  possi- 
bly see  anybody  without  knowing  his  business." 

"Tha's  all  right.  I've  lost  my  pal.  I  wantta  see- 

The  Superintendent  of  Complaints  cut  into  his  parrot- 
like  repetition.  "Yes,  you  mentioned  that.  But  the  post- 
master does  n't  know  where  he  is,  does  he?" 

"He  might  tell  me  where  his  mail  goes,  as  the  old 
sayin'  is." 

"When  did  you  lose  your  friend?" 

"I  ain't  heard  from  him  since  he  come  to  New  York. 
So  bein'  as  I  got  a  chanct  to  go  from  Tucson  with  a 


88  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

jackpot  trainload  of  cows  to  Denver,  I  kinda  made  tip 
my  mind  to  come  on  here  the  rest  of  the  way  and  look 
him  up.  I'm  afraid  some  one's  done  him  dirt." 

"Do  you  know  where  he's  staying?" 

"No,  suh,  I  don't." 

The  Superintendent  of  Complaints  tapped  with  his 
fingers  on  the  desk.  Then  he  smiled.  The  postmaster  was 
fond  cf  a  joke.  Why  not  let  this  odd  little  freak  from  the 
West  have  an  interview  with  him? 

Twenty  minutes  later  Johnnie  was  telling  his  story  to 
the  postmaster  of  the  City  of  New  York.  He  had  written 
three  times  to  Clay  Lindsay  and  had  received  no  an- 
swer. So  he  had  come  to  look  for  him. 

"And  seein'  as  I  was  here,  thinks  I  to  myself  thinks  I 
it  costs  nothin'  Mex  to  go  to  the  postmaster  and  ask 
where  Clay  's  at,"  explained  Johnnie  with  his  wistful, 
ingratiating,  give-me-a-bone  smile.  "Thinks  I,  it  cayn't 
be  but  a  little  ways  down  to  the  office." 

"Is  your  friend  like  your"  asked  the  postmaster,  in- 
terested in  spite  of  himself. 

"No,  suh."  Johnnie,  alias  the  Runt,  began  to  beam. 
"He's  a  sure-enough  go-getter,  Clay  is,  every  jump  of 
the  road.  I'd  follow  his  dust  any  day  of  the  week.  You 
don't  never  need  to  think  he's  any  shorthorn  cattleman, 
for  he  ain't.  He's  the  livest  proposition  that  ever  come 
out  of  Graham  County.  You  can  ce'tainly  gamble  on 
that." 

The  postmaster  touched  a  button.  A  clerk  appeared, 
received  orders,  and  disappeared. 

Johnnie,  now  on  the  subject  of  his  hero,  continued  to 
harp  on  his  points.  "You're  damn  whistlin'  Clay  ain't 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  88 

Kke  me.  He's  the  best  hawss-buster  in  An-rona.  The 
bronco  never  was  built  that  can  pile  him,  nor  the  man 
that  can  lick  him.  Clay's  no  bad  hombre,  you  under- 
stand, but  there  can't  nobody  run  it  over  him.  That's 
whatever.  All  I  'm  afraid  of  is  some  one's  gave  him  a  raw 
deal.  He 's  the  best  blamed  old  son-of-a-gun  I  ever  did 
meet  up  with." 

The  clerk  presently  returned  with  three  letters  ad- 
dressed to  Clay  Lindsay,  General  Delivery,  New  York. 
The  postmaster  handed  them  to  the  little  cowpuncher. 

"Evidently  he  never  called  for  them,"  he  said. 

Johnnie's  chin  fell.  He  looked  a  picture  of  helpless 
woe.  "They're  the  letters  I  set  down  an'  wrote  him  my 
own  se'f.  Something  has  sure  happened  to  that  boy, 
looks  like,"  he  bemoaned. 

"We'll  try  Police  Headquarters.  Maybe  we  can  get  a 
line  on  your  friend,"  the  postmaster  said,  reaching  for 
the  telephone.  "But  you  must  remember  New  York  is  a 
big  place.  It's  not  like  your  Arizona  ranch.  The  city  has 
nearly  eight  million  inhabitants." 

"I  sure  found  that  out  already,  Mr.  Postmaster.  Met 
every  last  one  of  'em  this  mo'nin',  I  '11  bet.  Never  did  see 
so  many  humans  millin'  around.  I'll  say  they're  thick 
as  cattle  at  a  round-up." 

"Then  you '11  understand  that  when  one  man  gets  lost 
it  is  n't  always  possible  to  find  him." 

"Why  not?  We  got  some  steers  down  in  my  country 
—  about  as  many  as  you  got  men  in  this  here  town  oi 
yourn.  Tha's  what  we  ride  the  range  for,  so's  not  to 
lose  'em.  We've  traced  a  B-in-a-Box  steer  clear  from 
Tucson  to  Denver,  done  it  more  'n  onct  or  twice  too.  I 


84  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

notice  you  got  a  big  bunch  of  man-punchers  in  uniform 
here.  Ain't  it  their  business  to  rustle  up  strays?" 

"The  police,"  said  the  postmaster,  amused.  "That  is 
part  of  their  business.  We  '11  pass  the  buck  to  them  any- 
how." 

After  some  delay  and  repeated  explanations  of  who  he 
was,  the  postmaster  got  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  his 
friend  the  commissioner.  Their  conversation  was  brief. 
When  the  postmaster  hung  up  he  rang  for  a  stenogra- 
pher and  dictated  a  letter  of  introduction.  This  he 
handed  to  Johnnie,  with  explicit  instructions. 

"Go  to  Police  Headquarters,  Center  Street,  and  take 
this  note  to  Captain  Luke  Byrne.  He  '11  see  that  the  mat- 
ter is  investigated  for  you." 

Johnnie  was  profuse,  but  somewhat  incoherent  in  his 
thanks.  "Much  obliged  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Postmaster. 
An'  —  an'  if  you  ever  hit  the  trail  for  God's  Country 
I'll  sure  —  I'll  sure  —  Us  boys  at  the  B-in-a-Box  we'd 
be  right  glad  to  —  to  meet  up  with  you.  Tha's  right,  as 
the  old  sayin'  is.  We  sure  would.  Any  oP  time." 

The  cowpuncher's  hat  was  traveling  in  a  circle  pro- 
pelled by  red,  freckled  hands.  The  official  cut  short 
Johnnie's  embarrassment. 

"Do  you  know  the  way  to  Police  Headquarters?" 

"I  reckon  I  can  find  it.  Is  it  fur?"  The  man  from 
Arizona  looked  down  at  the  high-heeled  boots  in  which 
his  tortured  feet  had  clumped  over  the  pavements  of  the 
metropolis  all  morning. 

"I'll  send  you  in  a  taxi."  The  postmaster  was  thinking 
that  this  babe  in  the  woods  of  civilization  never  would 
be  able  to  find  his  way  alone. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  85 

As  the  driver  swept  the  car  in  and  out  among  the 
traffic  of  the  narrow  streets  Johnnie  clung  to  the  top  of 
the  door  fearfully.  Every  moment  he  expected  a  smash. 
His  heart  was  in  his  throat.  The  tumult,  the  rush  of 
business,  the  intersecting  cross-town  traffic,  the  hub- 
bub of  the  great  city,  dazed  his  slow  brain.  The  hur- 
ricane deck  of  a  bronco  had  no  terrors  for  him,  but  this 
wild  charge  through  the  humming  trenches  shook  his 
nerve. 

"I  come  mighty  nigh  askin'  you  would  you  just  as 
lief  drive  slower,"  he  said  with  a  grin  to  the  chauffeur  as 
he  descended  to  the  safety  of  the  sidewalk.  "I  ain't 
awful  hardy,  an'  I  sure  was  plumb  scared." 

A  sergeant  took  Johnnie  in  tow  and  delivered  him  at 
length  to  the  office  waiting-room  of  Captain  Anderson, 
head  cf  the  Bureau  of  Missing  Persons.  The  Runt,  sur- 
veying the  numbers  in  the  waiting-room  and  those 
passing  in  and  out,  was  ready  to  revise  his  opinion  about 
the  possible  difficulty  of  the  job.  He  judged  that  half  the 
population  of  New  York  must  be  missing. 

After  a  time  the  captain's  secretary  notified  Johnnie 
that  it  was  his  turn.  As  soon  as  he  was  admitted  the 
puncher  began  his  little  piece  without  waiting  for  any 
preliminaries. 

"Say,  Captain,  I  want  you  to  find  my  friend  Clay 
Lindsay.  He  — " 

"Just  a  moment,"  interrupted  the  captain.  "Who  are 
you?  Don't  think  I  got  your  name." 

Johnnie  remembered  the  note  of  introduction  and  his 
name  at  the  same  time.  He  gave  both  to  the  big  man  who 
spent  his  busy  days  and  often  part  of  .the  nights  looking 


86  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

for  the  lost,  strayed,  and  stolen  among  New  York's 
millions. 

The  captain's  eyes  swept  over  the  note.  "Sit  down, 
Mr.  Green,  and  let's  get  at  your  trouble." 

As  soon  as  it  permeated  Johnnie's  consciousness  that 
he  was  Mr.  Green  he  occupied  precariously  the  front 
three  inches  of  a  chair.  His  ever-ready  friend  the  cow- 
boy hat  began  to  revolve. 

"This  note  says  that  you're  looking  for  a  man  named 
Clay  Lindsay  who  came  to  New  York  several  months 
ago.  Have  you  or  has  anybody  else  heard  from  him  in 
that  time?" 

"We  got  a  letter  right  after  he  got  here.  He  ain't  writ 
since." 

"Perhaps  he's  dead.  We'd  better  look  up  the  morgue 
records.'* 

"Morgue!"  The  Runt  grew  excited  instantly.  "That 
place  where  you  keep  folks  that  get  drowned  or  bumped 
off?  Say,  Captain,  I'm  here  to  tell  you  Clay  was  the 
livcst  man  in  Arizona,  which  is  the  same  as  sayin'  any- 
wheres. Cowpunchers  don't  take  naturally  to  morgues. 
No,  sir.  Clay  ain't  in  no  morgue.  Like  as  not  he 's  helped 
fill  this  yere  morgue  if  any  crooks  tried  their  rough  stuff 
on  him.  Don't  get  me  wrong,  Cap.  Clay  is  the  squarest 
he-man  ever  God  made.  All  I'm  sayin'  is  — ' 

The  captain  interrupted.  He  asked  sharp,  incisive 
questions  and  got  busy.  Presently  he  reached  for  a 
'phone,  got  in  touch  with  a  sergeant  at  the  police  desk 
in  the  upper  corridor,  and  sent  an  attendant  with 
Johnnie  to  the  Police  Department. 

The  Irish  sympathies  of  the  sergeant  were  aroused  by 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  87 

the  naive  honesty  of  the  little  man.  He  sent  for  another 
sergeant,  had  card  records  brought,  consulted  a  couple 
of  patrolmen,  and  then  turned  to  Johnnie. 

"We've  met  your  friend  all  right,"  he  said  with  a 
grin.  "He's  wan  heluva  lad.  Fits  the  description  to  a  T. 
There  can't  be  but  one  like  him  here."  And  he  went  on  to 
tell  the  story  of  the  adventure  of  the  janitor  and  the 
hose  and  that  of  its  sequel,  the  resale  of  the  fifty-five- 
dollar  suit  to  I.  Bernstein,  who  had  reported  his  troubles 
to  the  police. 

The  washed-out  eyes  of  the  puncher  lit  up.  "That's 
him.  That's  sure  him.  If  the'  was  two  of  him  they'd 
ce'tainly  be  a  hell-poppin'  team.  Clay  he's  the  best- 
natured  fellow  you  ever  did  see,  but  there  can't  nobody 
run  a  whizzer  on  him,  y'  betcha.  Tell  me  whe^e  he's 
at?" 

"  We  don't  know.  We  can  show  you  the  place  wherr  V 
tied  the  janitor,  but  that's  the  best  we  can  do."  Thfc 
captain  hesitated.  "If  you  find  him,  give  him  a  straight 
tip  from  me.  Tell  him  to  buy  a  ticket  for  Arizona  and 
take  the  train  for  home.  This  town  is  no  healthy  place 
for  him." 

"Because  he  hogtied  a  Swede,"  snorted  Johnnie 
indignantly. 

"No.  He's  got  into  more  serious  trouble  than  that. 
Your  friend  has  made  an  enemy  —  a  powerful  one. 
He'll  understand  if  you  tell  him." 

"Who  is  this  here  enemy?" 

"Never  mind.  He  hit  up  too  fast  a  pace." 

"You  can't  tell  me  a  thing  against  Clay  —  not  a 
thing,"  protested  Johnnie  hotly.  "He'll  sure  do  to  take 


88  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND  UP 

along,  Clay  will.  There  can't  any  guy  knock  him  to  me 
if  he  does  wear  a  uniform." 

"I'm  not  saying  a  thing  against  him,"  replied  the 
officer  impatiently.  "I'm  giving  him  a  friendly  tip  to 
beat  it,  if  you  see  him.  Now  I'm  going  to  send  you  up- 
town with  a  plain-clothes  man.  He'll  show  you  where 
your  friend  made  his  New  York  debut.  That 's  all  we  can 
do  for  you." 

An  hour  later  the  little  cowpuncher  was  gazing  wist- 
fully at  the  hitching-post.  His  face  was  twisted  pathet- 
ically to  a  question  mark.  It  was  as  though  he  thought 
he  could  conjure  from  the  post  the  secret  of  Clay's 
disappearance.  Where  had  he  gone  from  here?  And 
where  was  he  now? 

In  the  course  of  the  next  two  days  the  Runt  came 
back  to  that  post  many  times  as  a  starting-point  for 
weary,  high-heeled  tramps  through  streets  within  a 
circuit  of  a  mile.  He  could  not  have  explained  why  he 
did  so.  Perhaps  it  was  because  this  was  the  only  spot  in 
the  city  that  held  for  him  any  tangible  relationship  to 
Clay.  Some  one  claimed  to  have  seen  him  vanish  into 
one  of  these  houses.  Perhaps  he  might  come  back  again. 
It  was  a  very  tenuous  hope,  but  it  was  the  only  one 
Johnnie  had.  He  clumped  over  the  pavements  till  his 
feet  ached  in  protest. 

His  patience  was  rewarded.  On  the  second  day,  while 
he  was  gazing  blankly  at  the  post  a  groom  brought  two 
horses  to  the  curb  in  front  of  the  house  opposite.  One  of 
the  horses  had  a  real  cowboy's  saddle.  Johnnie's  eyes 
gleamed.  This  was  like  a  breath  of  honest-to-God 
Arizona.  The  door  opened,  and  out  of  it  came  a  man  and 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  89 

a  slim  young  woman.  Both  of  them  were  dressed  for 
riding,  she  in  the  latest  togs  of  the  town,  he  in  a  well-cut 
sack  suit  and  high  tan  boots. 

Johnnie  threw  up  his  hat  and  gave  a  yell.  "You 
blamed  old  horn-toad!  Might  'a'  knowed  you  was  aU 
right!  Might  'a'  knowed  you  would  n't  bite  off  more'n 
you  could  chew!  Oh,  you  Arizona!" 

Clay  gave  one  surprised  look  —  and  met  him  in  the 
middle  of  the  street.  The  little  cowpuncher  did  a  war 
dance  of  joy  while  he  clung  to  his  friend's  hand.  Tears 
brimmed  into  his  faded  eyes. 

"Hi  yi  yi,  doggone  yore  old  hide,  if  it  ain't  you  big  as 
coffee,  Clay.  Thinks  I  to  myse'f,  who  is  that  pilgrim? 
And,  by  gum,  it's  old  hell-a-mile  jes'  a-hittin'  his  heeis. 
Where  you  been  at,  you  old  skeezicks?" 

"How  are  you,  Johnnie?  And  what  are  you  doin* 
here?" 

The  Runt  was  the  kind  of  person  who  tells  how  he  is 
when  any  one  asks  him.  He  had  no  imagination,  so  he 
stuck  to  the  middle  of  the  road  for  fear  he  might  get 
lost. 

"I'm  jos'  lol'able,  Clay.  I  got  a  kinda  misery  in  my 
laigs  from  trompin'  these  hyer  streets.  My  feet  are 
plumb  burnin'  up.  You  did  n't  answer  my  letters,  so  I 
come  to  see  if  you  was  all  right/' 

"You  old  scalawag.  You  came  to  paint  the  town  red." 

Johnnie,  highly  delighted  at  this  charge,  protested. 
" Honest  I  didn't,  Clay.  I  wasn't  feelin'  so  tur'ble 
peart.  Seemed  like  the  boys  picked  on  me  after  you  left. 
So  I  jes'  up  and  come." 

If  Clay  was  not  delighted  to  have  his  little  Fidus 


00  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Achates  on  his  hands  he  gave  no  sign  of  it.  He  led  him 
across  the  road  and  introduced  him  to  Miss  Whitford. 

Clay  blessed  her  for  her  kindness  to  this  squat,  snub* 
nosed  adherent  of  his  whose  lonely  heart  had  driven  him 
two  thousand  miles  to  find  his  friend.  It  would  have 
been  very  easy  to  slight  him,  but  Beatrice  had  no 
thought  of  this.  The  loyalty  of  the  little  man  touched  he* 
greatly.  Her  hand  went  out  instantly.  A  smile  softened 
her  eyes  and  dimpled  her  cheeks. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  meet  any  friend  of  Mr.  Lindsay. 
Father  and  I  will  want  to  hear  all  about  Arizona  after 
you  two  have  had  your  visit  out.  We'll  postpone  the 
ride  till  this  afternoon.  That  will  be  better,  I  think." 

Clay  agreed.  He  grudged  the  loss  of  his  hour  with  her, 
but  under  the  circumstances  it  had  to  be.  For  a  moment 
he  and  Beatrice  stood  arranging  the  time  for  their  pro- 
posed ride.  Then,  with  a  cool  little  nod  that  included 
them  both,  she  turned  and  ran  lightly  up  the  steps  into 
the  house. 

"Some  sure-enough  queen,"  murmured  Johnnie  in 
naive  admiration,  staring  after  her  with  open  mouth. 

Clay  smiled.  He  had  an  opinion  of  his  own  on  that 
point. 


CHAPTER  XI 

JOHNNIE  GREEN  —  MATCH-MAKER 

JOHNNIE  GREEN  gave  an  upward  jerk  to  the  frying-pan 
and  caught  the  flapjack  deftly  as  it  descended. 

"Fust  and  last  call  for  breakfast  in  the  dining-cyar. 
Come  and  get  it,  old-timer,"  he  sang  out  to  Clay. 

That  young  man  emerged  from  his  bedroom  glowing. 
He  was  one  or  two  shades  of  tan  lighter  than  when  he 
had  reached  the  city,  but  the  paint  of  Arizona's  untera- 
pered  sun  still  distinguished  him  from  the  native-born, 
if  there  are  any  such  among  the  inhabitants  of  upper 
New  York. 

"You're  one  sure-enough  cook,"  he  drawled  to  his 
satellite.  "Some  girl  will  ce'tainly  have  a  good  wife  when 
she  gets  you.  I  expect  I'd  better  set  one  of  these  suffra- 
gette ladies  on  yore  trail." 

"Don't  you,  Clay,"  blushed  Johnnie.  "I  ain't  no 
ladies'  man.  They  make  me  take  to  the  tall  timber  when 
I  see  'em  comin'." 

"That  ain't  hardly  fair  to  them,  and  you  the  best 
flapjack  artist  in  Graham  County." 

"Sho!  I  don't  make  no  claims,  old  sock.  Mebbe  I'm 
handy  with  a  fry-pan,  mebbe  I  ain't.  Likely  you're  jest 
partial  to  my  flapjacks,"  the  little  man  said  in  order  to 
have  his  modest  suggestion  refuted. 

"They  suit  me,  Johnnie."  And  Clay  reached  for  the 
maple  syrup.  "Best  flapjacks  ever  made  in  this  town.*' 

The  Runt  beamed  all  over.  If  he  had  really  been  a 


92  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

puppy  he  would  have  wagged  his  tail.  Since  he  could  n\ 
do  that  he  took  it  out  in  grinning.  Any  word  of  praise 
from  Clay  made  the  world  a  sunshiny  one  for  him. 

"This  here  place  ain't  Arizona,  but  o'  course  we  got 
to  make  the  b?st  of  it.  You  know  I  can  cook  when  I  got 
the  fixin's,"  he  agreed. 

The  two  men  were  batching  it.  They  had  a  little 
apartment  in  the  Bronx  and  Johnnie  looked  after  it  for 
his  friend.  One  of  Johnnie's  vices  —  according  to  the 
standard  of  the  B-in-a-Box  boys  —  was  that  he  was  as 
neat  as  an  old  maid.  He  liked  to  hang  around  a  mess- 
wagon  and  cook  doughnuts  and  pies.  His  talent  came  in 
handy  now,  for  Clay  was  no  housekeeper. 

After  the  breakfast  things  were  cleared  away  John- 
nie fared  forth  to  a  certain  house  adjoining  Riverside 
Drive,  where  he  earned  ten  dollars  a  week  as  outdoors 
man.  His  business  was  to  do  odd  jobs  about  the  place. 
He  cut  and  watered  the  lawn.  He  made  small  repairs. 
Beatrice  had  a  rose  garden,  and  under  her  direction  he 
dug,  watered,  and  fertilized. 

Incidentally,  the  snub-nosed  little  puncher  with  tha 
Unfinished  features  adored  his  young  mistress  in  the 
dumb,  uncritical  fashion  a  schoolboy  does  a  Ty  Cobb  01 
an  Eddie  Collins.  For  him  the  queen  could  do  no  wrong. 
He  spent  hours  mornings  and  evenings  at  their  rooms 
telling  Clay  about  her.  She  was  certainly  the  finest  little 
lady  he  ever  had  seen.  In  his  heart  he  had  hopes  that 
Clay  would  fall  in  love  with  and  marry  her.  She  was  the 
only  girl  in  the  world  that  deserved  his  paragon.  But 
her  actions  worried  him.  Sometimes  he  wondered  if  she 
really  understood  what  a  catch  Clay  was. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  99 

He  tried  to  tell  her  his  notions  on  the  subject  the 
morning  Clay  praised  his  flapjacks. 

She  was  among  the  rose-bushes,  gloved  and  hatted, 
clipping  American  Beauties  for  the  dining-room,  a 
dainty  but  very  self-reliant  little  personality. 

"Miss  Beatrice,  I  been  thinkin'  about  you  and  Clay," 
he  tcld  her,  leaning  on  his  spade. 

"What  have  you  been  thinking  about  us?"  the  girl 
asked,  snipping  off  a  big  rose. 

She  liked  Johnnie  and  listened  often  with  amusement 
to  his  point  of  view.  It  was  so  different  from  that  of  any- 
body else  she  had  ever  met.  Perhaps  this  was  why  she 
encouraged  him  to  talk.  There  may  have  been  another 
reason.  The  favorite  theme  of  his  conversation  interested 
her. 

"How  you're  the  best-lookin*  couple  that  a  man 
would  see  anywheres." 

Into  her  clear  cheeks  the  color  flowed.  "If  I  thought 
nonsense  like  that  I  would  n't  say  it,"  she  said  quietly. 
"  We  're  not  a  couple.  He 's  a  man.  I  'm  a  woman.  I  like 
him  and  want  to  stay  friends  with  him  if  you  '11  let  me." 

"Sure.  I  know  tha  ,  kit-  "  Johnnie  groped  help- 
lessly to  try  to  explain  what  he  had  meant.  "Clay  he 
likes  you  a  heap,"  he  finished  inadequately. 

The  eyes  of  the  girl  began  to  dance.  There  was  no  use 
taking  offense  at  this  simple  soul.  After  all  he  was  not  a 
servant,  but  a  loyal  follower  whose  brain  was  not  quite 
up  to  the  job  of  coping  with  the  knotty  problem  of 
bringing  two  of  his  friends  together  in  matr.:mony. 
"Does  he?  I'm  sure  I'm  gratified,"  she  murmured, 
with  her  scissors  among  the  roses. 


94  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Yep.  I  never  knowed  Clay  to  look  at  a  girl  before^ 
He  sure  thinks  a  heap  of  you." 

She  gave  a  queer  little  bubbling  laugh.  "You're 
flattering  me." 

"Honest,  I  ain't."  Johnnie  whispered  a  secret  across 
the  rose-bushes.  "Say,  if  you  work  it  right  I  believe  you 
can  get  him." 

The  girl  sparkled.  Here  was  a  new  slant  on  matri- 
monial desirability.  Clearly  the  view  of  the  little  cow- 
puncher  was  that  Clay  had  only  to  crook  his  fingers  to 
summon  any  girl  in  the  world  that  he  desired. 

"Do  you  think  so  —  with  so  many  attractive  girls  in 
New  York?  "  she  pleaded. 

"He  don't  pay  no  'tention  to  them.  Honest,  I  believe 
you  can  if  you  don't  spill  the  beans." 

"What  would  you  advise  me  to  do?"  she  dimpled. 

"Sho!  I  dunno."  He  shyly  unburdened  himself  of  the 
warning  he  had  been  leading  up  to.  "But  I 'd  tie  a  can  to 
that  dude  fellow  that  hangs  around  —  the  Bromfield 
guy.  O'  course  I  know  he  ain't  one  two  three  with  you 
while  Clay  's  on  earth,  but  I  don't  reckon  I  'd  take  any 
chances,  as  the  old  sayin'  is.  No,  ma'am,  I'd  ce'tainly 
lose  him  pronto.  Clay  might  get  sore.  Better  get  shet  of 
the  dude." 

Miss  Whitford  bit  her  lip  to  keep  from  exploding  in  a 
sudden  gale  of  mirth.  But  the  sight  of  her  self-appointed 
chaperon  set  her  off  into  peals  of  laughter  in  spite  of  her- 
self. Every  time  she  looked  at  Johnnie  she  went  off  into 
renewed  chirrups.  He  was  so  homely  and  so  deadly 
earnest.  The  little  waif  was  staring  at  her  in  perplexed 
surprise,  mouth  open  and  chin  fallen.  He  could  see  no 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  95 

Occasion  for  gayety  at  his  suggestion.  There  was  nothing 
subtle  about  the  Runt.  In  his  social  code  wealth  did  cot 
figure.  A  forty-dollar-a-month  bronco  buster  was  free  to 
offer  advice  to  the  daughter  of  a  millionaire  about  her 
matrimonial  prospects  if  it  seemed  best. 

And  just  now  it  seemed  to  Johnnie  decidedly  best. 
He  scratched  his  tow  head,  for  he  had  mulled  the  whole 
thing  over  and  decided  reluctantly  to  do  his  duty  by  the 
girl.  So  far  as  he  could  make  out,  Beatrice  Whitford 
played  no  favorites  in  her  little  court  of  admirers.  Clay 
Lindsay  and  Clarendon  Bromfield  were  with  her  more 
than  any  of  the  others.  If  she  inclined  to  either  of  the 
two,  Johnnie  could  see  no  evidence  of  it.  She  was  gay 
and  frank  with  both,  a  jolly  comrade  for  a  ride,  a  dinner 
dance,  or  a  theater  party. 

This  was  what  troubled  Johnnie.  Of  course  she  must 
be  in  love  with  Clay  and  want  to  marry  him,  since  she 
was  a  normal  human  being.  But  if  she  continued  to  play 
with  Bromfield  the  Westerner  might  punish  her  by  sheer- 
ing off.  That  was  the  reason  why  the  Runt  was  doing  his 
conscientious  duty  this  fine  morning. 

"Clay  ain't  one  o'  the  common  run  of  cowpunchers, 
ma'am.  You  bet  you,  by  jollies,  he  ain't.  Clay  he  owns 
a  half-interest  in  the  B-in-a-Box.  O'  course  it  ain't  what 
he's, got,  but  what  he  is  that  counts.  He's  the  best 
darned  pilgrim  ever  I  did  see." 

"He's  all  right,  Johnnie,"  the  girl  admitted  with  an 
odd  little  smile.  "Do  you  want  me  to  tell  him  that  I'll 
be  glad  to  drop  our  family  friends  to  meet  his  approval? 
I  don't  suppose  he  asked  you  to  speak  to  me  about  it, 
did  he?" 


96  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

•    The  little  range-rider  missed  the  irony  of  this. 
ma'am,  I  jest  butted  in.  Mebbe  I  had  n't  ought  to  of 
spoke." 

The  frank  eyes  of  the  girl  met  his  fairly.  A  patch  of 
heightened  color  glowed  in  her  joit  cheeks.  "That 
would  have  been  better,  Johnnie.  But  since  you  have 
introduced  the  subject,  I'll  tell  you  that  Mr.  Lindsay 
and  I  are  friends.  Neither  of  us  has  the  slightest  inten- 
tion of  being  anything  more.  You  may  not  understand 
such  things." 

"No'm,"  he  admitted  humbly.  "I  reckon  I'm  a 
plumb  idjit." 

His  attitude  was  so  dejected  that  she  relented. 

"You  need  n't  feel  badly,  Johnnie.  There's  no  harm 
done  —  if  you  don't  say  anything  about  it  to  Mr. 
Lindsay.  But  I  don't  think  you  were  intended  for  a 
match-maker.  That  takes  quite  a  little  finesse,  does  n't 
it?" 

The  word  "finesse"  was  not  in  Johnnie's  dictionary,, 
but  he  acquiesced  in  her  verdict. 

"I  reckon,  ma'am,  you're  right." 


CHAPTER  XII 
CLAY  READS  AN  AD  AND  ANSWERS  IT 

CLAY  was  waiting  for  lunch  at  a  rotisserie  on  Sixth 
Avenue,  and  in  order  to  lose  no  time  —  of  which  he  had 
more  just  now  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with  —  was 
meanwhile  reading  a  newspaper  propped  against  a 
water-bottle.  From  the  personal  column  there  popped 
out  at  him  three  lines  that  caught  his  attention: 

If  this  meets  the  eye  of  C.  L.  of  Arizona 
please  write  me,  Box  M-21,  The  Herald. 
Am  in  trouble.  KITTY  M. 

He  read  it  again.  There  could  be  no  doubt  in  the  world. 
It  was  addressed  to  him,  and  from  Kitty.  While  he  at* 
his  one  half  spring  chicken  Clay  milled  the  situation 
over  in  his  mind.  She  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  him, 
just  as  he  had  been  searching  for  her.  By  good  luck  her 
shot  at  a  venture  had  reached  him.  He  remembered  now 
that  on  the  bus  he  had  casually  mentioned  to  her  that  he 
usually  read  the  "Herald." 

After  he  had  eaten,  Clay  walked  down  Broadway  and 
left  a  note  at  the  office  of  the  "Herald"  for  Kitty. 

The  thought  of  her  was  in  his  mind  all  day.  He  had 
worried  a  good  deal  over  her  disappearance.  It  was  not 
alone  that  he  felt  responsible  for  the  loss  of  her  place  as 
cigarette  girl.  One  disturbing  phase  of  the  situation  was 
that  Jerry  Durand  must  have  seen  her.  What  more 
likely  than  that  he  had  arranged  to  have  her  spirited 


98  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

away?  Lindsay  had  read  that  hundreds  of  girls  disap- 
peared every  year  in  the  city.  If  they  ever  came  to  the 
surface  again  it  was  as  dwellers  in  that  underworld  in  the 
current  of  which  they  had  been  caught. 

Jerry  was  a  known  man  in  New  York.  It  had  been 
easy  for  Clay  to  find  out  the  location  of  his  saloon  and 
the  hotel  where  he  lived.  The  cattleman  had  done  some 
quiet  sleuthing,  but  he  had  found  no  trace  of  Kitty.  Now 
he  knew  that  she  had  turned  to  him  in  her  need  and 
cried  for  help. 

That  she  was  in  trouble  did  not  surprise  him.  The  girf 
was  born  for  it  as  naturally  as  the  sparks  fly  upward. 
She  was  a  provocation  to  those  who  prey.  In  her  face 
there  was  a  disturbing  quality  quite  apart  from  her 
prettiness.  Back  of  the  innocence  lay  some  hint  of  slum- 
berous passion.  Kitty  was  one  of  those  girls  who  have 
the  misfortune  to  stir  the  imaginations  of  men  without 
the  ability  to  keep  them  at  arm's  length.  Just  what  her 
present  difficulty  was  Clay  did  not  know,  but  he  was 
quite  sure  it  had  to  do  with  a  man.  Already  he  had 
decided  to  rescue  her.  He  had  promised  to  be  her  friend. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  to  stand  back  when  she  called. 

He  had  an  engagement  that  afternoon  to  walk  with 
Beatrice  Whitford.  She  was  almost  the  only  girl  in  her 
set  who  knew  how  to  walk  and  had  the  energy  for  it.  In 
her  movement  there  was  the  fluent,  untamed  grace  that 
expressed  a  soul  not  yet  stunted  by  the  claims  of  conven- 
tion. The  golden  little  head  was  carried  buoyantly.  In 
her  step  was  the  rhythm  of  perfect  ease.  The  supple 
resilience  of  her  was  another  expression  of  the  spiritual 
quality  that  spoke  in  the  vivid  face. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  09 

Clay,  watching  her  as  she  moved,  thought  of  a  para- 
graph from  Mark  Twain's  "Eve's  Diary": 

She  is  all  interest,  eagerness,  vivacity,  the  world  is  to  her  a 
charm,  a  wonder,  a  mystery,  a  joy;  she  can't  speak  for  delight 
when  she  finds  a  new  flower,  she  must  pet  it  and  caress  it  and 
smell  it  and  talk  to  it,  and  pour  out  endearing  names  upon  it. 
And  she  is  color  mad:  brown  rocks,  yellow  sand,  gray  moss, 
green  foliage,  blue  sky;  the  pearl  of  the  dawn,  the  purple 
shadow  on  the  mountains,  the  golden  islands  floating  in  crim- 
son seas  at  sunset,  the  pallid  moon  sailing  through  the  shred- 
ded cloud-rack,  the  star-jewels  glittering  in  the  waste  of 
space.  .  .  . 

But  the  thing  that  tantalized  him  about  her  and 
filled  him  with  despair  was  that,  though  one  moment 
she  might  be  the  first  woman  in  the  birthday  of  the 
world  filled  with  the  primitive  emotions  of  the  explorer, 
the  next  she  was  a  cool,  Paris-gowned-and-shod  young 
modern,  about  as  competent  to  meet  emergencies  as 
anything  yet  devised  by  heaven  and  a  battling  race. 

They  crossed  to  Morningside  Park  and  moved  through 
it  to  the  northern  end  where  the  remains  of  Fort  Laight, 
built  to  protect  the  approach  to  the  city  during  the  War 
of  1812,  can  still  be  seen  and  traced. 

Beatrice  had  read  the  story  of  the  earthworks.  In  the 
midst  of  the  telling  of  it  she  stopped  to  turn  upon  him 
with  swift  accusation,  "You're  not  listening." 

"That's  right,  I  was  n't,"  he  admitted. 

"Have  you  heard  something  about  your  cigarette 
girl?" 

Clay  was  amazed  at  the  accuracy  of  her  center 
shot. 


100  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Yes."  He  showed  her  the  newspaper. 

She  read.  The  golden  head  nodded  triumphantly.  "I 
told  you  she  could  look  out  for  herself.  You  see  when  she 
had  lost  you  she  knew  enough  to  advertise." 

Was  there  or  was  there  not  a  faint  note  of  malice  in 
the  girl's  voice?  Clay  did  not  know.  But  it  would  have 
neither  surprised  nor  displeased  him.  He  had  long  since 
cKscovered  that  his  imperious  little  friend  was  far  from 
an  angel. 

At  his  rooms  he  found  a  note  awaiting  him. 

Come  to-night  after  eleven.  I  am  locked  in  the  west  rear 
room  of  the  second  story.  Climb  up  over  the  back  porch. 
Don't  make  any  noise.  The  window  will  be  unbolted.  A  friend 
is  mailing  this.  For  God's  sake,  don't  fail  me. 

The  note  was  signed  "  Kitty."  Below  were  given  the 
house  and  street  number.  Clay  studied  the  letter  a  long 
time  —  the  wording  of  it,  the  formation  of  the  letters, 
the  spirit  that  had  actuated  the  writer.  It  was  written 
upon  a  sheet  of  cheap  lined  paper  torn  from  a  pad.  The 
envelope  was  one  of  those  sold  at  the  post-office  already 
stamped. 

I  Was  the  note  genuine?  Or  did  it  lead  to  a  trap?  He 
could  not  tell.  It  might  be  a  plant  or  it  might  be  a  wail  of 
real  distress.  There  was  only  one  way  to  find  out  unless  he 
went  to  the  police.  That  way  was  to  go  through  with  the 
adventure.  The  police !  Clay  went  back  to  the  thought 
of  them  several  times.  The  truth  was  that  he  had  put 
himself  out  of  court  there.  He  was  in  bad  with  the  blue- 
coats  and  would  probably  be  arrested  if  he  showed  up  at 
headquarters. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  101 

He  decided  to  play  a  lone  hand  except  for  such  help  as 
Johnnie  could  give  him. 

Clay  took  a  downtown  car  and  rode  to  the  cross- 
street  mentioned  in  the  letter  for  a  preliminary  tour  of 
investigation.  The  street  designated  was  one  of  plain 
brownstone  fronts  with  iron-grilled  doors.  The  blank 
faces  of  the  houses  invited  no  confidence.  It  struck  him 
that  there  was  something  sinister  about  the  neighbor- 
hood, but  perhaps  the  thought  was  born  of  the  fear. 
Number  121  had  windows  barred  with  ornamental 
grilles.  This  might  be  to  keep  burglars  out.  It  would 
serve  equally  well  to  keep  prisoners  in. 

At  the  nearest  grocery  store  Clay  made  inquiries.  He 
was  looking,  he  said,  for  James  K.  Sanger.  He  did  not 
know  the  exact  address.  Could  the  grocery  man  help 
him  run  down  his  party?  How  about  the  folks  living  at 
Number  121? 

"Don't  know  'em.  They've  been  in  only  for  a  few 
days.  They  don't  trade  here." 

Clay  tried  the  telephone,  but  Information  could  tell 
him  only  that  there  was  no  'phone  at  121. 

On  the  whole  Clay  inclined  to  think  that  the  letter 
was  not  a  forgery.  In  his  frank,  outdoor  code  there  was 
no  reason  why  Durand  should  hate  him  enough  to  go  to 
such  trouble  to  trap  him.  The  fellow  had  more  than 
squared  accounts  when  he  had  beaten  him  up  outside 
the  Sea  Siren.  Why  should  he  want  to  do  anything  more 
to  him?  But  he  had  had  two  warnings  that  the  ex-prize- 
fighter was  not  through  with  him  —  both  of  them  from 
members  of  the  police  force,  one  direct  from  the  sergeant 
who  had  helped  rescue  him,  the  other  by  way  of  the  Runt 


102  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUNIMJP 

from  headquarters.  When  he  recalled  the  savage  hatred 
of  that  flat,  pallid  face  he  did  not  feel  so  sure  of  immu- 
nity. Clay  had  known  men  in  the  West,  wolf -hear  ted 
killers  steeped  in  a  horrible  lust  for  revenge,  who  never 
forgot  or  forgave  an  injury  —  until  their  enemy  had 
paid  the  price  in  full.  Jerry  Durand  might  be  one  of  this 
stamp.  He  was  a  man  of  a  bad  reputation,  one  about 
whom  evil  murmurs  passed  in  secret.  Not  many  years 
Ago  he  had  been  tried  for  the  murder  of  one  Paddy 
Kelly,  a  rival  gangsman  in  his  neighborhood,  and  had 
been  acquitted  on  the  ground  of  self-defense.  But  there 
had  been  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  evidence  framed  in 
his  behalf.  Later  he  had  been  arrested  for  graft,  but  the 
case  somehow  had  never  been  acted  upon  by  the  dis- 
trict attorney's  office.  The  whisper  was  that  his  pull  had 
saved  him  from  trial. 

The  cattleman  did  not  linger  in  that  street  lined  with 
houses  of  sinister  faces.  He  did  not  care  to  call  attention 
to  his  presence  by  staying  too  long.  Besides,  he  had  some 
arrangements  to  make  for  the  night  at  his  rooms. 

These  were  simple  and  few.  He  oiled  and  loaded  his 
revolver  carefully,  leaving  the  hammer  on  the  one 
chamber  left  empty  to  prevent  accidents  after  the 
custom  of  all  careful  gunmen.  He  changed  into  the 
wrinkled  suit  he  had  worn  when  he  reached  the  city,  and 
substituted  for  his  shoes  a  pair  of  felt-soled  gymnasium 
ones. 

The  bow-legged  little  puncher  watched  his  friend,  just 
as  a  faithful  dog  does  his  master.  He  asked  no  questions. 
In  good  time  he  knew  he  would  be  told  all  it  was  neces- 
sary for  him  to  know. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  103 

As  they  rode  from  the  Bronx,  Clay  outlined  the  situa- 
tion and  told  his  plans  so  far  as  he  had  any. 

"So  I'm  goin'  to  take  a  whirl  at  it,  Johnnie.  Mebbe 
they're  lyin'  low  up  in  that  house  to  get  me.  Mebbe  the 
note 's  the  real  thing.  You  can  search  me  which  it  is.  The 
only  way  to  find  out  is  to  go  through  with  the  thing. 
Yore  job  is  to  stick  around  in  front  of  the  hacienda  and 
wait  for  me.  If  I  don't  show  up  inside  of  thirty  minutes, 
get  the  police  busy  right  away  breakin'  into  the  place. 
Do  you  get  me,  Johnnie?" 

"Lemme  go  with  you  into  the  house,  Clay,"  the  little 
man  pleaded. 

"No,  this  is  a  one-man  job.  If  the  note  is  straight 
goods  I  've  got  to  work  on  the  Q.T.  Do  exactly  as  I  say. 
That 's  how  you  can  help  me  best." 

"What's  the  matter  with  me  goin'  into  the  house  in- 
stead o'  you?  It  don't  make  no  difference  much  if  they 
do  gun  me.  I  'm  jest  the  common  run  of  the  pen.  But  you 
—  you  're  graded  stock,"  argued  the  Runt. 

"Nothin'  doin',  old-timer.  This  is  my  job,  and  I  don't 
reckon  I'll  let  anybody  else  tackle  it.  Much  obliged, 
just  the  same.  You're  one  sure-enough  white  man, 
Johnnie." 

The  little  fellow  knew  that  the  matter  was  settled. 
Clay  had  decided  and  what  he  said  was  final.  But  John- 
nie worried  about  it  all  the  way.  At  the  last  moment, 
when  they  separated  at  the  street  corner,  he  added  one 
last  word. 

"Don't  you  be  too  venturesome,  son.  If  them  guyi 
got  you  it  sure  would  break  me  all  up." 

Clay  smiled  cheerfully.  "They  're  not  goin'  to  get  me. 


104  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Johnnie.  Don't  forget  to  remember  not  to  forget  yore 
part.  Keep  under  cover  for  thirty  minutes;  then  if  I 
have  n't  shown  up,  holler  yore  head  off  for  the  cops." 

They  were  passing  an  alley  as  Clay  finished  speaking. 
He  slipped  into  its  friendly  darkness  and  was  presently 
lost  to  sight.  It  ran  into  an  inner  court  which  was  the 
center  of  tortuous  passages.  The  cattleman  stopped  to 
get  his  bearings,  selected  the  likeliest  exit,  and  brought 
up  in  the  shelter  of  a  small  porch.  This,  he  felt  sure, 
must  be  the  rear  of  the  house  he  wanted. 

A  strip  of  lattice-work  ran  up  the  side  of  the  entrance. 
Very  carefully,  testing  every  slat  with  his  weight  before 
trusting  himself  to  it,  he  climbed  up  and  edged  forward 
noiselessly  upon  the  roof.  On  hands  and  knees  he  crawled 
to  the  window  and  tried  to  peer  in. 

The  blind  was  down,  but  he  could  see  that  the  room 
was  dark.  What  danger  lurked  behind  the  drawn  blind 
he  could  not  guess,  but  after  a  moment,  to  make  sure 
that  the  revolver  beneath  his  belt  was  ready  for  instant 
use,  he  put  his  hand  gently  on  the  sash. 

His  motions  were  soundless  as  the  fall  of  snowflakes. 
Ths  window  moved  slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  un- 
der the  pressure  of  his  hands.  It  gave  not  the  faintest 
creak  of  warning.  His  fingers  found  the  cld-fashioned 
roller  blind  and  traveled  down  it  to  the  bottom.  With 
the  faintest  of  clicks  he  released  the  spring  and  guided 
the  blind  upward. 

Warily  he  lifted  one  leg  into  the  room.  His  head  fol- 
lowed, then  the  rest  of  his  body.  He  waited,  every  nerve 
tensed. 

There  came  to  him  a  sound  that  sent  cold  finger-tip0 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  105 

playing  a  tattoo  up  and  down  his  spine.  It  was  the  in- 
take of  some  one's  cautious  breathing. 

His  hand  crept  to  the  butt  of  the  revolver.  He 
crouched,  poised  for  either  attack  or  retreat. 

A  bath  of  light  flooded  the  room  and  swallowed  the 
darkr-ess.  Instantly  Clay's  revolver  leaped  to  the  air. 


CHAPTER 
A  LATE  EVENING  CALL 

A  YOUNG  woman  in  an  open-neck  nightgown  sat  up  in 
bed,  a  cascade  of  black  hair  fallen  over  her  white  shoul- 
ders. Eyes  like  jet  beads  were  fastened  on  him.  In  them 
he  read  indignation  struggling  with  fear. 

"Say,  what  are  you  anyhow  —  a  moll  buzzer?  If 
you're  a  porch-climber  out  for  the  props  you've  sure 
come  to  the  wrong  dump.  I  got  nothin'  but  bum  rocks." 

This  was  Greek  to  Clay.  He  did  not  know  that  she 
had  asked  him  if  he  were  a  man  who  robs  women,  and 
that  she  had  told  him  he  could  get  no  diamonds  there 
since  hers  were  false. 

The  Arizonan  guessed  at  once  that  he  was  not  in  the 
room  mentioned  in  the  letter.  He  slipped  his  revolver 
back  into  its  place  between  shirt  and  trousers. 

"Is  this  house  number  121?"  he  asked. 

"No,  it's  123.  What  of  it?" 

"It's  the  wrong  house.  I'm  ce'tainly  one  chump." 

The  black  eyes  lit  with  sardonic  mockery.  The  young 
woman  knew  already  that  she  had  nothing  to  fear  from 
this  brown-faced  man.  His  face  was  not  that  of  a  thug. 
It  carried  its  own  letter  of  recommendation  written  on 
it.  Instinctively  she  felt  that  he  had  not  come  to  rob.  A 
lively  curiosity  began  to  move  in  her. 

"Say,  do  I  look  like  one  of  them  born-every-minute 
kind?"  she  asked  easily.  "Go  ahead  and  spring  that  old 
one  on  me  about  how  you  got  tanked  at  the  club  and 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  l(W 

come  in  at  the  window  on  account  o*  your  wife  havin'  a 
temper  somethin'  fierce." 

"No,  I  —  I  was  lookin'  for  some  one  else.  I'm  awful 
sorry  I  scared  you.  I'd  eat  dirt  if  it  would  do  any  good, 
but  it  won't.  I'm  just  a  plumb  idiot.  I  reckon  I'll  be 
pushin'  on  my  reins."  He  turned  toward  the  window. 

"Stop  right  there  where  you're  at,"  she  ordered 
sharply.  "  Take  a  step  to  that  window  and  I  '11  holler  for 
a  harness  bull  like  a  Bowery  bride  gettin'  a  wallopin* 
from  friend  husband.  I  gotta  have  an  explanation.  And 
who  told  you  I  was  scared?  Forget  that  stuff.  Take  it 
from  Annie  that  she  ain't  the  kind  that  scares." 

The  girl  sat  up  in  bed,  fingers  laced  around  the  knees 
beneath  the  blanket.  There  was  an  insouciance  about  her 
he  did  not  understand.  She  did  not  impress  him  in  the 
least  as  a  wanton,  but  if  he  read  that  pert  little  face 
aright  she  was  a  good  deal  less  embarrassed  than  he. 

"I  came  to  see  some  one  else,  but  I  got  in  the  wrong 
house,"  he  explained  again  lamely. 

"That's  twice  I  heard  both  them  interestin*  facts. 
Who  is  this  goil  you  was  comin'  through  a  window  to  see 
in  the  middle  o'  the  night.  And  what 's  that  gat  for  if  it 
ain't  to  croak  some  other  guy?  You  ought ta  be  a  shamed 
of  yourself  for  not  pullin'  a  better  wheeze  than  that  on 
me." 

Clay  blushed.  In  spite  of  the  slangy  impudence  that 
dropped  from  the  pretty  red  lips  the  girl  was  slim  and 
looked  virginal. 

"You're  'way  off.  I  was  n't  callin'  on  her  to  — "He 
Stuck  hopelessly. 

"Whadya  know  about  that?"  she  came  back  with 


108  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

obvious  sarcasm.  "You  soitainly  give  me  a  pain.  1*11  say 
you  were  n't  callin'  to  arrange  no  Sunday  School  picnic. 
Listen.  Look  at  that  wall  a  minute,  will  you?" 

When  he  turned  again  at  her  order  she  was  sitting  on 
the  side  of  the  bed  wrapped  in  a  kimono,  her  feet  in  bed- 
room slippers.  He  saw  now  that  she  was  a  slender-limbed 
slip  of  a  girl.  The  lean  forearm,  which  showed  bare  to 
the  elbow  when  she  raised  it  to  draw  the  kimono  closer 
round  her,  told  Clay  that  she  was  none  too  well  nour- 
ished. 

"I'll  listen  now  to  your  fairy  tale,  Mr.  Gumshoe  Guy, 
but  I  wantta  wise  you  that  I'm  hep  to  men.  Doncha  try 
to  string  me,"  she  advised. 

Clay  did  not.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that  she  might 
give  him  information  of  value.  There  was  something 
friendly  and  kindly  about  the  humorous  little  mouth 
which  parroted  worldly  wisdom  so  sagely  and  the  jargon 
of  criminals  so  readily.  He  told  her  the  story  of  Kitty 
Mason.  He  could  see  by  the  girl's  eyes  that  she  had 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  in  love  with  Kitty. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  disturb  that  conviction.  It  might 
enlist  her  sympathy. 

"Honest,  Annie,  I  believe  this  guy's  on  the  level," 
the  young  woman  said  aloud  as  though  to  herself.  "If 
he  ain't,  he 's  sure  a  swell  mouthpiece.  He  don't  look  to 
me  like  no  flat-worker  —  not  with  that  mug  of  his.  But 
you  never  can  tell." 

"I'm  not,  Miss.  My  story's  true."  Eyes  clear  as  the 
Arizona  sky  in  a  face  brown  as  the  Arizona  desert  looked 
straight  at  her. 
.  Annie  Millikan  had  never  seen  a  man  like  this  before, 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  109 

so  cleaa  and  straight  and  good  to  look  at.  From  child- 
hood she  had  been  brought  up  on  the  fringe  of  that 
underworld  the  atmosphere  of  which  is  miasmic.  She 
was  impressed  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  Say,  why  don't  you  go  into  the  movies  and  be  one  of 
these  here  screen  ideals?  You'd  knock  'em  dead,"  she 
advised  flippantly,  crossing  her  bare  ankles. 

Clay  laughed.  He  liked  the  insolent  little  twist  to  her 
mouth.  She  made  one  strong  appeal  to  him.  This  bit  of  a 
girl,  so  slim  that  he  could  break  her  in  his  hands,  was 
game  to  the  core.  He  recognized  it  as  a  quality  of  kin- 
ship. 

"This  is  my  busy  night.  When  I've  got  more  time  111 
think  of  it.  Right  now  — 

She  took  the  subject  out  of  his  mouth.  "Listen,  hew 
do  you  know  the  girl  ain't  a  badger- worker?" 

"You'll  have  to  set  'em  up  on  the  other  alley,  Miss," 
the  Westerner  said.  "I  don't  get  yore  meanin'." 

"Could  n't  she  'a'  made  this  date  to  shake  you  down? 
Blackmail  stuff." 

"No  chance.  She's  not  that  kind.'* 

"Mebbe  you're  right.  I  meet  so  many  hop-nuts  and 
dips  and  con  guys  and  gun-molls  that  I  get  to  thinkin* 
there's  no  decent  folks  left,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of 
weariness. 

"Why  don't  you  pull  yore  picket-pin  and  travel  to  a 
new  range?"  he  asked.  "They're  no  kind  of  people  for 
you  to  be  knowin'.  Get  out  to  God's  country  where  men 
are  white  and  poor  folks  get  half  a  chance." 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Little  old  New 
York  is  my  beat.  It's  the  biggest  puddle  in  tke  world 


110  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

and  I  '11  do  my  kickin'  here."  Abruptly  she  switched  the 
talk  back  to  his  affairs.  "You  wantta  go  slow  when  you 
tackle  Jerry  Durand.  I  can  tell  you  one  thing.  He's  in 
this  business  up  to  the  neck.  I  seen  his  shadow  Gorilla 
Dave  comin'  outa  the  house  next  door  twice  to-day." 

"Seen  anything  of  the  girl?" 

"Nope.  But  she  may  be  there.  Honest,  you're  up 
against  a  tough  game.  There 's  no  use  rappin'  to  the  bulls. 
They  'd  tip  Jerry  off  and  the  girl  would  n't  be  there  when 
they  pulled  the  house." 

"Then  I  must  work  this  alone." 

"Why  don't  you  lay  down  on  it?"  she  asked,  her 
frank  eyes  searching  his.  "You  soitainly  will  if  you've 
got  good  sense." 

"I'mgoin'  through." 

Her  black  eyes  warmed.  "Say,  I'll  bet  you're  some 
guy  when  you  get  started.  Hop  to  it  and  I  hope  you  get 
Jerry  good." 

"I  don't  want  Jerry.  He's  too  tough  for  me.  Once  I 
had  so  much  of  him  I  took  sick  and  went  to  the  hospital. 
It's  the  girl  I  want." 

"Say,  listen!  I  got  a  hunch  mebbe  it's  a  bum  steer, 
but  you  can't  be  sure  till  you  try  it.  Why  don't  you  get 
in  through  the  roof  instead  o'  the  window?" 

"Can  I  get  in  that  way?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know  —  if  the  trapdoor  ain't 
latched.  Say,  stick  around  outside  my  room  half  a  sec, 
will  you?" 

The  cattleman  waited  in  the  darkness  of  the  passage. 
If  his  enemies  were  trying  to  ambush  him  in  the  house 
next  door  the  girl's  plan  might  save  him.  He  would  have 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  111 

a  chance  at  least  to  get  them  unexpectedly  in  the 
rear. 

It  could  have  been  scarcely  more  than  two  minutes 
later  that  the  young  woman  joined  him. 

Her  small  hand  slipped  into  his  to  guide  him.  They 
padded  softly  along  the  corridor  till  they  came  to  a 
flight  of  stairs  running  up.  The  girl  led  the  way,  taking 
the  treads  without  noise  in  her  stockinged  feet.  Clay 
followed  with  the  utmost  caution. 

Again  her  hand  found  his  in  the  darkness  of  the  land- 
ing. She  took  him  toward  the  rear  to  a  ladder  which 
ended  at  a  dormer  half-door  leading  to  the  roof.  Clay 
fumbled  with  his  fingers,  found  a  hook,  unfastened  it, 
and  pushed  open  the  trap.  He  looked  up  into  a  starlit 
night  and  a  moment  later  stepped  out  upon  the  roof. 
Presently  the  slim  figure  of  the  girl  stood  beside  bim. 

They  moved  across  to  a  low  wall,  climbed  it  and  came 
to  the  dormer  door  of  the  next  house.  Clay  knelt  and 
lifted  it  an  inch  or  two  very  slowly.  He  lowered  it  again 
and  rose. 

"I'm  a  heap  obliged  to  you,  Miss,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "You're  a  game  little  gentleman." 

She  nodded.  "My  name  is  Annie  Millikan." 

"Mine  is  Clay  Lindsay.  I  want  to  come  and  thank  you 
proper  some  day." 

"I  take  tickets  at  Heath's  Palace  of  Wonders  two 
blocks  down,"  she  whispered. 

"You  '11  sure  sell  me  a  ticket  one  of  these  days,"  Clay 
promised. 

"Look  out  for  yourself.  Don't  let  'em  get  you.  Give 
'em  a  chance,  and  that  gang  would  croak  you  sure." 


112  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"1*11  be  around  to  buy  that  ticket.  Good-night,  Miss 
Annie.  Don't  you  worry  about  me." 

"You  will  be  careful,  won't  you?" 

"I  never  threw  down  on  myself  yet." 

The  girl's  flippancy  broke  out  again.  "Say,  lemme 
know  when  the  weddin'  is  and  I'll  send  you  a  salad 
bowl,"  she  flashed  at  him  saucily  as  be  turned  to  go. 

Cky  was  already  busy  with  the  doer. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
STARRING  AS  A  SECOND-STORY  MAN 

DARKNESS  engulfed  Clay  as  he  closed  the  trapdoor  over- 
head. His  exploring  feet  found  each  tread  of  the  ladder 
with  the  utmost  caution.  Near  the  foot  of  it  he  stopped 
to  listen  for  any  sound  that  might  serve  to  guide  him. 
None  came.  The  passage  was  as  noiseless  as  it  was  dark. 

Again  he  had  that  sense  of  cold  finger-tips  making  a 
keyboard  of  his  spine.  An  impulse  rose  in  him  to  clamber 
up  the  ladder  to  the  safety  of  the  open-skyed  roof.  He 
was  a  son  of  the  wide  outdoors.  It  went  against  his  gorge 
to  be  blotted  out  of  life  in  this  trap  like  some  foul  rodent. 

But  he  trod  down  the  panic  and  set  his  will  to  carry  on. 
He  crept  forward  along  the  passage.  Every  step  or  two 
he  stopped  to  listen,  nerves  keyed  to  an  acute  tension. 

A  flight  of  stairs  brought  him  to  what  he  knew  must 
be  the  second  floor.  To  him  there  floated  a  murmur  of 
sounds.  They  came  vague  and  indistinct  through  a 
closed  door.  The  room  of  the  voices  was  on  the  left-hand 
>ide  of  the  corridor. 

He  soft-footed  it  closer,  reached  the  door,  and  dropped 
noiselessly  to  a  knee.  A  key  was  in  the  lock  on  the  out- 
side. With  infinite  precaution  against  rattling  he  turned 
it,  slid  it  out,  and  dropped  it  in  his  coat  pocket.  His  eye 
fastened  to  the  opening. 

Three  men  were  sitting  round  a  table.  They  were 
making  a  bluff  at  playing  cards,  but  their  attention  was 
focused  on  a  door  that  evidently  led  into  another  room. 


114  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Two  automatic  revolvers  were  on  the  table  close  to  the 
hands  of  their  owners.  A  blackjack  lay  in  front  of  the 
third  man.  Clay  recognized  him  as  Gorilla  Dave.  Th« 
other  two  were  strangers  to  him. 

They  were  waiting.  Sometimes  they  talked  in  low 
voices.  For  the  most  part  they  were  silent,  their  eyes  on 
the  door  of  the  trap  that  had  been  baited  for  a  man  Clay 
knew  and  was  much  interested  in.  Something  evil  in  the 
watchfulness  of  the  three  chilled  momentarily  his  veins. 
These  fellows  were  the  gunmen  of  New  York  he  had 
Yead  about  —  paid  assassins  whose  business  it  was  to 
frame  innocent  men  for  the  penitentiary  or  kill  them  ia 
cold  blood.  They  were  of  the  underworld,  without  con- 
science and  without  honor.  As  he  looked  at  them 
through  the  keyhole,  the  watcher  was  reminded  by  their 
restless  patience  of  mountain  wolves  lying  in  wait  for 
their  kill.  Gorilla  Dave  sat  stolidly  in  his  chair,  but  the 
other  two  got  up  from  time  to  time  and  paced  the  room 
silently,  always  with  an  eye  to  the  door  of  the  other 
room. 

Then  things  began  to  happen.  A  soft  step  sounded 
in  the  corridor  behind  the  man  at  the  keyhole.  He  had 
not  time  to  crawl  away  nor  even  to  rise  before  a  man 
stumbled  against  him. 

Clay  had  one  big  advantage  over  his  opponent.  He 
had  been  given  an  instant  of  warning.  His  right  arm 
went  up  around  the  neck  of  his  foe  and  tightened  there, 
His  left  hand  turned  the  doorknob.  Next  moment  the 
two  men  crashed  into  the  room  together,  the  Westerner 
rising  to  his  feet  as  they  came,  with  the  body  of  the  othe! 
lying  across  his  back  from  hip  to  shoulder. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  116 

Gorilla  Dave  leaped  to  his  feet.  The  other  two  gun- 
men, caught  at  disadvantage  a  few  feet  from  the  table, 
dived  for  their  automatics.  They  were  too  late.  Clay 
gwung  his  body  downward  from  the  waist  with  a  quick, 
strong  jerk.  The  man  on  his  back  shot  heels  over  head  as 
though  he  had  been  hurled  from  a  catapult,  crashed  face 
up  on  the  table,  and  dragged  it  over  with  him  in  his 
forward  plunge  to  the  wall. 

Before  any  one  else  could  move  or  speak,  Lindsay's 
gun  was  out. 

"Easy  now."  His  voice  was  a  gentle  drawl  that  carried 
a  menace.  "Lemme  be  boss  of  the  rodeo  a  while.  No, 
Gorilla,  I  would  n't  play  with  that  club  if  I  was  you.  I'm 
sure  hell-a-mile  on  this  gun  stuff.  Drop  it!"  The  last 
two  words  came  sharp  and  crisp,  for  the  big  thug  had 
telegraphed  an  unintentional  warning  of  his  purpose  to 
dive  at  the  man  behind  the  thirty-eight. 

Gorilla  Dave  was  thick-headed,  but  he  was  open  to 
persuasion.  Eyes  hard  as  diamonds  bored  into  his, 
searched  him,  dominated  him.  The  barrel  of  the  revolver 
did  not  waver  a  hair-breadth.  His  fingers  opened  and  the 
blackjack  dropped  from  his  hand  to  the  floor. 

"For  the  love  o'  Mike,  who  is  this  guy?"  demanded 
one  of  the  other  men. 

"I'm  the  fifth  member  of  our  little  party,"  explained 
Clay. 

"  Wot  t  'ell  do  youse  mean?  And  what 's  the  big  idea  in 
most  killin'  the  chief?  " 

The  man  who  had  been  flung  across  the  table  turned 
over  and  groaned.  Clay  would  fcave  known  that  face 
among  a  thousand.  It  belonged  to  Jerry  Durand. 


11«  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"I  came  in  at  the  wrong  door  and  without  announcin* 
myself,"  said  the  cattleman,  almost  lazily,  the  unhurried 
indolence  of  his  manner  not  shaken.  "You  see  I  wanted 
to  be  on  time  so  as  not  to  keep  you  waitin'.  I'm  Clay 
Lindsay/* 

The  more  talkative  of  the  gunmen  from  the  East  Side 
flashed  one  look  at  the  two  automatics  lying  on  the 
floor  beside  the  overturned  table.  They  might  as  well 
have  been  in  Brazil  for  all  the  good  they  were  to  him. 

"For  the  love  o'  Mike,"  he  repeated  again  helplessly. 
"You 're  the  —  the—  " 

" — the  hick  that  was  to  have  been  framed  for  house- 
breaking.  Yes,  I'm  him,"  admitted  Clay  idiomatically. 
"How  long  had  you  figured  I  was  to  get  on  the  Island? 
Or  was  it  yore  intention  to  stop  my  clock  for  good?" 

"Say,  how  did  youse  get  into  de  house?"  demanded 
big  Dave. 

"Move  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  Gorilla, 
and  join  yore  two  friends,"  suggested  the  master  of 
ceremonies.  "And  don't  make  any  mistake.  If  you  do 
you  won't  have  time  to  be  sorry  for  it.  I  '11  ce'tainly 
shoot  to  kill." 

The  big-shouldered  thug  shuffled  over.  Clay  stepped 
sideways,  watching  the  three  gunmen  every  foot  of  the 
way,  kicked  the  automatics  into  the  open,  and  took 
possession  of  them.  He  felt  safer  with  the  revolvers  in  his 
coat  pocket,  for  they  had  been  within  reach  of  Durand, 
and  that  member  of  the  party  was  showing  signs  of  a 
return  to  active  interest  in  the  proceedings. 

"When  I  get  you  right  I'll  croak  you.  By  God,  I  will," 
swore  the  gang  leader  savagely,  nursing  his  battered 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  11? 

head.  "No  big  stiff  from  the  bushes  can  run  anything 
over  on  me." 

"I  believe  you,"  retorted  Clay  easily.  "That  is,  I  be- 
lieve you're  tellin'  me  yore  intentions  straight.  There's 
no  news  in  tkat  to  write  home  about.  But  you'd  better 
make  that  if  instead  of  when.  This  is  three  cracks  you've 
had  at  me  and  I'm  still  a  right  healthy  rube." 

"Don't  bank  on  fool  luck  any  more.  I'll  get  you 
sure,"  cried  Durand  sourly. 

The  gorge  of  the  Arizonan  rose.  "  Mebbeso.  You  're  a 
dirty  dog,  Jerry  Durand.  From  the  beginning  you  were  a 
rotten  fighter  —  in  the  ring  and  out  of  it.  You  and  yore 
strong-arm  men !  Do  you  think  I  'm  afraid  of  you  because 
you  surround  yoreself  with  dips  and  yeggmen  and  hop- 
nuts,  all  scum  of  the  gutter  and  filth  of  the  earth?  Where 
I  come  from  men  fight  clean  and  out  in  the  open.  They'd 
stomp  you  out  like  a  rattlesnake." 

Clay  moved  back  to  the  door  and  looked  around  from 
one  to  another,  a  scorching  contempt  in  his  eyes.  "Rats 
—  that 's  what  you  are,  vermin  that  feed  on  offal.  You 
have  n't  got  an  honest  fight  in  you.  All  you  can  do  is 
skulk  behind  cover  to  take  a  man  when  he  ain't  lookin'." 

He  whipped  open  the  door,  stepped  out,  closed  it,  and 
took  the  key  from  his  pocket.  A  moment,  and  he  had 
turned  the  lock. 

From  within  there  came  a  rush  that  shook  the  panels. 
Clay  was  already  busy  searching  for  Kitty.  He  tore  open 
door  after  door,  calling  her  loudly  by  name.  Even  in  the 
darkness  he  could  see  that  the  rooms  were  empty  of 
furniture. 

There  was  a  crash  of  splintering  panels,  the  sound  of  a 


118  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

bursting  lock.  Almost  as  though  it  were  an  echo  of  it 
came  a  heavy  pounding  upon  the  street  door.  Clay 
guessed  that  the  thirty  minutes  were  up  and  that  the 
Runt  was  bringing  the  police.  He  dived  back  into  one  of 
the  empty  rooms  just  in  time  to  miss  a  rush  of  men 
pouring  along  the  passage  to  the  stairs. 

Cut  ofl  from  the  street,  Clay  took  to  the  roof  again.  It 
would  not  do  for  him  to  be  caught  in  the  house  by  the 
police.  He  climbed  the  ladder,  pushed  his  way  through 
the  trapdoor  opening,  and  breathed  deeply  of  the  night 
air. 

But  he  had  no  time  to  lose.  Already  he  could  hear  the 
trampling  of  feet  up  the  stairs  to  the  second  story. 

Lightly  he  vaulted  the  wall  and  came  to  the  roof  door 
leading  down  to  number  123.  He  found  it  latched. 

The  caves  of  the  roof  projected  so  far  that  he  could  not 
from  there  get  a  hold  on  the  window  casings  below.  He 
made  a  vain  circuit  of  the  roof,  then  passed  to  the  next 
house. 

Again  he  was  out  of  luck.  The  tenants  had  made  safe 
the  entrance  against  prowlers  of  the  night.  He  knew  that 
at  any  moment  now  the  police  might  appear  in  pursuit  of 
him.  There  was  no  time  to  lose. 

He  crossed  to  the  last  house  in  the  block  —  and  found 
himself  barred  out.  As  he  rose  from  his  knees  he  heard 
the  voices  of  men  clambering  through  the  scuttle  to  the 
roof.  At  the  same  time  he  saw  that  which  brought  him  to 
instant  action.  It  was  a  rope  clothes-line  which  ran  from 
post  to  post,  angling  from  one  corner  of  the  building  to 
another  and  back  to  the  opposite  one. 

No  man  in  Manhattan's  millions  knew  the  value  of  a 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  life 

rope  or  could  handle  one  more  expertly  than  this  cattle* 
man.  His  knife  was  open  before  he  had  reached  the 
nearest  post.  One  strong  slash  of  the  blade  severed  it. 
In  six  long  strides  he  was  at  the  second  post  unwinding 
the  line.  He  used  his  knife  a  second  time  at  the  third 
post. 

Through  the  darkness  he  could  see  the  dim  forms  of 
men  stopping  to  examine  the  scuttle.  Then  voices  came 
clear  to  him  in  the  still  night. 

"If  he  reached  the  roof  we've  got  him." 

"Unless  he  found  an  open  trap,"  a  second  answered* 

With  deft  motions  Clay  worked  swiftly.  He  was  fas- 
tening the  rope  to  the  chimney  of  the  house.  Every  in- 
stant he  expected  to  hear  a  voice  raised  in  excited  dis- 
covery of  him  crouched  in  the  shadows.  But  his  fingers 
were  as  sure  and  as  steady  as  though  he  had  minutes  be- 
fore him  instead  of  seconds. 

"There's  the  guy  —  over  by  the  chimney." 

Clay  threw  the  slack  of  the  line  from  the  roof.  He  had 
no  time  to  test  the  strength  of  the  rope  nor  its  length.  As 
the  police  rushed  him  he  slid  over  the  edge  and  began  to 
lower  himself  hand  under  hand. 

Would  they  cut  the  rope?  Or  would  they  take  pot 
shots  at  him.  He  would  know  soon  enough. 

The  wide  eaves  protected  him.  A  man  would  have  to 
hang  out  from  the  wall  above  the  ledge  to  see  him. 

Clay's  eyes  were  on  the  gutter  above  while  he  jerked 
his  way  down  a  foot  at  a  time.  A  face  and  part  of  a  body 
swung  out  into  sight. 

"We've  got  yuh.  Come  back  or  I'll  shoot,"  a  voice 
called  down. 


ISO  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

A  revolver  showed  against  the  black  sky. 

The  man  from  Arizona  did  not  answer  and  did  not 
stop.  He  knew  that  shooting  from  above  is  an  art  that 
few  men  have  acquired. 

A  bullet  sang  past  his  ear  just  as  he  swung  in  and 
crouched  on  the  window-sill.  Another  one  hit  the  bricks 
close  to  his  head. 

The  firing  stopped.  A  pair  of  uniformed  legs  appeared 
dangling  from  the  eaves.  A  body  and  a  head  followed 
these.  They  began  to  descend  jerkily. 

Clay  took  a  turn  at  the  gun-play.  He  fired  his  revolver 
into  the  air.  The  spasmodic  jerking  of  the  blue  legs 
abruptly  ceased. 

"He's  got  a  gun!"  the  man  in  the  air  called  up  to 
those  above. 

The  fact  was  obvious.  It  could  not  be  denied. 

"Yuh'd  better  give  up  quietly.  We're  bound  to  get 
yuh,"  an  officer  shouted  from  the  roof  by  way  of  parley. 

The  cattleman  did  not  answer  except  by  the  smashing 
of  glass.  He  had  forced  his  way  into  two  houses  within 
the  past  hour.  He  was  now  busy  breaking  into  a  third. 
The  window  had  not  yielded  to  pressure.  Therefore 
he  was  knocking  out  the  glass  with  the  butt  of  his 
revolver. 

He  crawled  through  the  opening  just  as  some  one  sat 
up  in  bed  with  a  frightened  exclamation. 

"Who  —  is  —  s  —  s  —  s  it?"  a  masculine  voice 
asked,  teeth  chattering. 

Clay  had  no  time  to  gratify  idle  curiosity.  He  ran 
through  the  room,  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and 
Went  down  on  the  banister  to  the  first  floor.  He  fled  back 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  121 

to  the  rear  of  the  house  and  stole  out  by  the  kitchen 
door. 

The  darkness  of  the  alley  swallowed  him,  but  he  could 
still  hear  the  shouts  of  the  men  on  the  roof  and  answering 
ones  from  new  arrivals  below. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  on  board  a  street  car.  He 
was  not  at  all  particular  as  to  its  destination.  He  wanted 
to  be  anywhere  but  here.  This  neighborhood  was  getting 
entirely  too  active  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  GANGMAN  SEES  RED 

EXACTLY  thirty  minutes  after  Clay  had  left  him  to  break 
into  the  house,  Johnnie  lifted  his  voice  in  a  loud  wail  for 
the  police.  He  had  read  somewhere  that  one  can  never 
find  an  officer  when  he  is  wanted,  but  the  Bull-of-Bashan 
roar  of  the  cowpuncher  brought  them  running  from  all 
directions. 

Out  of  the  confused  explanations  of  the  range-rider 
the  first  policeman  to  reach  him  got  two  lucid  state- 
ments. 

"They're  white-slavin'  a  straight  girl.  This  busher 
says  his  pal  went  in  to  rescue  her  half  an  hour  ago  and 
has  n't  showed  up  since,"  he  told  his  mates. 

Wi  th  Johnnie  bringing  up  the  rear  they  made  a  noisy 
attack  on  the  front  door  of  Number  121.  Almost  immedi- 
ately it  was  opened  from  the  inside.  Four  men  had  come 
down  the  stairs  in  a  headlong  rush  to  cut  off  the  escape 
of  one  who  had  outwitted  and  taunted  them. 

Those  who  wanted  to  get  in  and  those  who  wanted  to 
get  out  all  tried  to  talk  at  once,  but  as  soon  as  the  police 
recognized  Jerry  Durand  they  gave  him  the  floor. 

"  We  're  after  a  flat-worker,"  explained  the  ex-pugilist. 
"He  must  be  tryin*  for  a  roof  getaway."  He  turned  and 
led  the  joint  forces  back  up  the  stairs. 

Thugs  and  officers  surged  up  after  him,  carrying  with 
them  in  their  rush  the  Runt.  He  presently  found  himself 
on  the  roof  with  those  engaged  in  a  man-hunt  for  his 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  123 

friend.  When  Clay  shattered  the  window  and  disappeared 
inside  after  his  escape  from  the  roof,  Johnnie  gave  a 
deep  sigh  of  relief.  This  gun-play  got  on  his  nerves,  since 
Lindsay  was  the  target  of  it. 

The  bandy-legged  range-rider  was  still  trailing  along 
with  the  party  ten  minutes  later  when  its  scattered  mem- 
bers drew  together  in  tacit  admission  that  the  hunted 
man  had  escaped. 

"Did  youse  got  a  look  at  his  mug,  Mr.  Durand?" 
asked  one  of  the  officers.  "It's  likely  we've  got  it  down 
at  headquarters  in  the  gall'ry." 

Durand  had  already  made  up  his  mind  on  that  point. 

"We  didn't  see  his  face  in  the  light,  Pete.  No,  I 
would  n't  know  him  again." 

His  plug-uglies  took  their  cue  from  him.  So  did  the 
officers.  If  Durand  did  not  want  a  pinch  there  would,  of 
course,  not  be  one. 

The  gang  leader  was  in  a  vile  temper.  If  this  story 
reached  the  newspapers  all  New  York  would  be  laughing 
at  him.  He  could  appeal  to  the  police,  have  Clay  Lindsay 
arrested,  and  get  him  sent  up  for  a  term  on  the  charge  of 
burglary.  But  he  could  not  do  it  without  the  whole  tale 
coming  out.  One  thing  Jerry  Durand  could  not  stand 
was  ridicule.  His  vanity  was  one  of  his  outstanding  quali- 
ties, and  he  did  not  want  it  widely  known  that  the  boob 
he  had  intended  to  trap  had  turned  the  tables  on  him, 
manhandled  him,  jeered  at  him,  and  locked  him  in  a 
room  with  his  three  henchmen. 

Johnnie  Green  chose  this  malapropos  moment  for 
reminding  the  officers  of  the  reason  for  the  coming  to  the 
house. 


I«4  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"What  about  the  young  lady?"  he  asked  solici- 
tously. 

Durand  wheeled  on  him,  looked  him  over  with  an  in- 
solent, malevolent  eye,  and  jerked  a  thumb  in  his  direc- 
tion. "Who  is  this  guy?" 

"He's  the  fellow  tipped  us  off  his  pal  was  inside," 
answered  one  of  the  patrolmen.  He  spoke  in  a  whisper 
close  to  the  ear  of  Jerry.  "Likely  he  knows  more  than  he 
lets  on.  Shall  I  make  a  pinch?" 

The  eyes  of  the  gang  leader  narrowed.  "So  he's  a 
friend  of  this  second-story  bird,  is  he?" 

"Y'betcha!"  chirped  up  Johnnie,  "and  I'm  plumb 
tickled  to  take  his  dust  too.  Now  about  this  yere  young 
lady*-" 

Jerry  caught  him  hard  on  the  side  of  the  jaw  with  a 
short  arm  jolt.  The  range-rider  hit  the  pavement  hard. 
Slowly  he  got  to  his  feet  nursing  his  cheek. 

"What  yuh  do  that  for,  doggone  it?"  he  demanded 
resentfully.  "Me,  I  wasn't  lookin'  for  no  trouble. 
Me,  I—" 

Durand  leaped  at  him  across  the  sidewalk.  His  strong 
fingers  closed  on  the  throat  of  the  bow-legged  puncher. 
He  shook  him  as  a  lion  does  his  kill.  The  rage  of  the 
pugilist  found  a  vent  in  punishing  the  friend  of  the  man 
he  hated.  Johnnie  grew  black  in  the  face.  His  knees 
sagged  and  his  lips  foanled. 

The  officers  pried  Jerry  loose  from  his  victim  with  the 
greatest  difficulty.  He  tried  furiously  to  get  at  him, 
lunging  from  the  men  who  were  holding  his  arms. 

The  puncher  sank  helplessly  against  the  wall. 

"He's  got  all  he  can  carry,  Mr.  Durand,"  one  of  the 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  125 

bluecoats  said  soothingly.  "You  don't  wantta  croak  the 
little  guy." 

The  ex-prize-fighter  returned  to  sanity.  "Says  I'm 
white-slavin'  a  girl,  does  he?  I'll  learn  him  to  lie  about 
me,"  he  growled. 

Johnnie  strangled  and  sputtered,  fighting  for  breath 
to  relieve  his  tortured  lungs. 

"Gimme  the  word,  an'  I'll  run  him  in  for  a  drunk," 
the  policeman  suggested  out  of  the  corner  of  a  whisper- 
ing mouth. 

Jerry  shook  his  head.  "Nope.  Let  him  go,  Pete." 

The  policeman  walked  up  to  the  Runt  and  caught  him 
roughly  by  the  arm.  "Move  along  outa  here.  I'd  ought 
to  pinch  you,  but  I'm  not  gonna  do  it  this  time.  See? 
You  beat  it!" 

Durand  turned  to  one  of  his  followers.  "Tail  that  fel- 
low. Find  out  where  he 's  stayin'  and  report." 

Helplessly  Johnnie  went  staggering  down  the  street. 
He  did  not  understand  why  he  had  been  treated  so.  His 
outraged  soul  protested  at  such  injustice,  but  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation  carried  him  out  of  the  danger 
zone  without  argument  about  it.  Even  as  he  wobbled 
away  he  was  looking  with  unwavering  faith  to  his  friend 
to  right  his  wrongs.  Clay  would  fix  this  fellow  Durand 
for  what  he  had  done  to  him.  Before  Clay  got  through 
with  him  the  bully  would  wish  he  had  never  lifted  a 
hand  to  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
A  FACE  IN  THE  NIGHT 

CLAY  did  his  best  under  the  handicap  of  a  lack  of  entente 
between  him  and  the  authorities  to  search  New  York  for 
Kitty.  He  used  the  personal  columns  of  the  newspapers. 
He  got  in  touch  with  taxicab  drivers,  ticket-sellers,  post- 
men, and  station  guards.  So  far  as  possible  he  even  em- 
ployed the  police  through  the  medium  of  Johnnie.  The 
East  Side  water-front  and  the  cheap  lodging-houses  of 
that  part  of  the  city  he  combed  with  especial  care.  All 
the  time  he  knew  that  in  such  a  maze  as  Manhattan  it 
would  be  a  miracle  if  he  found  her. 

But  miracles  are  made  possible  by  miracle-workers. 
The  Westerner  was  a  sixty-horse-power  dynamo  of 
energy.  He  felt  responsible  for  Kitty  and  he  gave  him- 
self with  single-minded  devotion  to  the  job  of  discover- 
ing her. 

His  rides  and  walks  with  Beatrice  were  rare  events 
now  because  he  was  so  keen  on  the  business  of  looking 
for  his  Colorado  protegee.  He  gave  them  up  reluctantly. 
Every  time  they  went  out  together  into  the  open  Miss 
Whitford  became  more  discontented  with  the  hothouse 
existence  she  was  living.  He  felt  there  was  just  a  chance 
that  if  he  were  constant  enough,  he  might  sweep  her  off 
her  feet  into  that  deeper  current  of  life  that  lay  beyond 
the  social  shallows.  But  he  had  to  sacrifice  this  chance. 
He  was  not  going  to  let  Kitty's  young  soul  be  ship- 
wrecked if  he  could  help  it,  and  he  had  an  intuition  that 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  127 

she  was  not  wise  enough  nor  strong  enough  to  keep  off 
the  rocks  alone. 

A  part  of  his  distress  lay  in  the  coolness  of  his  impe- 
rious young  friend  who  lived  on  the  Drive.  Beatrice  re- 
sented his  divided  allegiance,  though  her  own  was  very 
much  in  that  condition.  Clay  and  she  had  from  the  first 
been  good  comrades.  No  man  had  ever  so  deeply  re- 
sponded to  her  need  of  friendship.  All  sorts  of  things  he 
understood  without  explanations.  A  day  with  him  was 
one  that  brought  the  deep  content  of  happiness.  That,  no 
doubt,  she  explained  to  herself,  was  because  he  was  such 
a  contrast  to  the  men  of  cramped  lives  she  knew.  He  was 
a  splendid  tonic,  but  of  course  one  did  not  take  tonics 
except  occasionally. 

Yet  though  Beatrice  intended  to  remain  heart-whole, 
she  wanted  to  be  the  one  woman  in  Clay's  life  until  she 
released  him.  It  hurt  her  vanity,  and  perhaps  something 
deeper  than  her  vanity,  that  such  a  girl  as  she  conceived 
Kitty  Mason  to  be  should  have  first  claim  on  the  time 
she  had  come  to  consider  her  own.  She  made  it  plain  to 
him,  in  the  wordless  way  expert  young  women  have  at 
command,  that  she  did  not  mean  to  share  with  him  such 
odd  hours  as  he  chose  to  ask  for.  He  had  to  come  when 
she  wanted  him  or  not  at  all.  Without  the  name  of  Kitty 
having  been  mentioned,  he  was  given  to  understand  that 
if  he  wished  to  remain  in  the  good  graces  of  Beatrice 
Whitford  he  must  put  the  cigarette  girl  out  of  his  mind. 

For  all  his  good  nature  Clay  was  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  accept  dictation  of  this  sort.  He  would  go 
through  with  anything  he  started,  and  especially  where 
it  was  a  plain  call  of  duty.  Beatrice  might  like  it  or  not  as 


If8  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

she  pleased.  He  would  make  his  own  decisions  as  to  his 
conduct. 

He  did. 

Bee  was  furious  at  him.  She  told  herself  that  there  was 
either  a  weak  streak  in  him  or  a  low  one,  else  he  would 
not  be  so  obsessed  by  the  disappearance  of  this  flirta- 
tious little  fool  who  had  tried  to  entrap  him.  But  she  did 
not  believe  it.  A  glance  at  this  brown-faced  man  was 
sufficient  evidence  that  he  trod  with  dynamic  force  the 
way  of  the  strong.  A  look  into  his  clear  eyes  was  certifi- 
cate enough  of  his  decency. 

,  When  Clay  met  Kitty  at  last  it  was  quite  by  chance. 
As  it  happened  Beatrice  was  present  at  the  time. 
.  He  had  been  giving  a  box  party  at  the  Empire.  The 
gay  little  group  was  gathered  under  the  awning  outside 
the  foyer  while  the  limousine  that  was  to  take  them  to 
Shanley's  for  supper  was  being  called.  Colin  Whitford, 
looking  out  into  the  rain  that  pelted  down,  uttered  an 
exclamatory  "By  Jove!" 

Clay  turned  to  him  inquiringly. 

"A  woman  was  looking  out  of  that  doorway  at  us," 
he  said.  "If  she's  not  in  deep  water  I'm  a  bad  guesser.  I 
thought  for  a  moment  she  knew  me  or  some  one  of  us. 
She  started  to  reach  out  her  hands  and  then  shrank 
back." 

"Young  or  old?"  asked  the  cattleman. 

"Young  — a  girl" 

"Which  door?" 

"The  third." 

"Excuse  me."  The  host  was  off  in  an  instant,  almost 
on  the  run. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  lj» 

But  the  woman  had  gone,  swallowed  in  the  semi- 
darkness  of  a  side  street.  Clay  followed. 

Beatrice  turned  to  her  father,  eyebrows  lifted.  There 
was  a  moment's  awkward  silence. 

"Mr.  Lindsay  will  be  back  presently,"  Whitford  said. 
"We'll  get  in  and  wait  for  him  out  of  the  way  a  little 
farther  up  the  street." 

When  Clay  rejoined  them  he  was  without  his  overcoat. 
He  stood  in  the  heavy  rain  beside  the  car,  a  figure  of 
supple  grace  even  in  his  evening  clothes,  and  talked  in  a 
low  voice  with  Beatrice's  father.  The  mining  man  nod- 
ded agreement  and  Lindsay  turned  to  the  others. 

"I'm  called  away,"  he  explained  aloud.  "Mr.  Whit*, 
ford  has  kindly  promised  to  play  hcst  in  my  place.  I'm 
right  sorry  to  leave,  but  it's  urgent." 

His  grave  smile  asked  Beatrice  to  be  charitable  in  her 
findings.  The  eyes  she  gave  him  were  coldly  hostile.  She, 
too,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  haggard  face  in  the 
shadows  and  she  hardened  her  will  against  him.  The 
bottom  of  his  heart  went  out  as  he  turned  away.  He  knew 
Beatrice  did  not  and  would  not  understand. 

The  girl  was  waiting  where  Clay  had  left  her,  crouched 
against  a  basement  milliner's  door  under  the  shelter  of 
the  steps.  She  was  wearing  the  overcoat  he  had  flung 
around  her.  In  its  pallid  despair  her  face  was  pitiable. 

A  waterproofed  policeman  glanced  suspiciously  at 
them  as  he  sloshed  along  the  sidewalk  in  the  splashing 
rain. 

"I —  I've  looked  for  you  everywhere,"  moaned  the 
girl.  "It's  been  — awful." 

"I  know,  but  it's  goin'  to  be  all  right  now,  Kitty,"  he 


130  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

comforted.  "You're  goin'  home  with  me  to-night.  To- 
morrow we'll  talk  it  all  over." 

He  tucked  an  arm  under  hers  and  led  her  along  the 
wet,  shining  street  to  a  taxicab.  She  crouched  in  a  corner 
of  the  cab,  her  body  shaken  with  sobs. 

The  young  man  moved  closer  and  put  a  strong  arm 
around  her  shoulders.  "Don't  you  worry,  Kitty.  Yore 
big  brother  is  on  the  job  now." 

"I  —  I  wanted  to  —  to  kill  myself,"  she  faltered. 
"I  tried  to  —  in  the  river  —  and  —  it  was  so  black  — 
I  could  n't."  The  girl  shivered  with  cold.  She  had  been 
exposed  to  the  night  rain  for  hours  without  a  coat. 

He  knew  her  story  now  in  its  essentials  as  well  as  he 
did  later  when  she  wept  it  out  to  him  in  confession.  And 
because  she  was  who  she  was,  born  to  lean  on  a  s  tronger 
will,  he  acquitted  her  of  blame. 

They  swung  into  Broadway  and  passed  taxis  and 
limousines  filled  with  gay  parties  just  out  of  the  theaters. 
Young  women  in  rich  furs,  wrapped  from  the  cruelty  of 
life  by  the  caste  system  in  which  wealth  had  encased 
them,  exchanged  badinage  with  sleek,  well-dressed  men. 
A  ripple  of  care-free  laughter  floated  to  him  across  the 
gulf  that  separated  this  girl  from  them.  By  the  cluster 
lights  of  Broadway  he  could  see  how  cruelly  life  had 
mauled  her  soft  youth.  The  bloom  of  her  was  gone,  all 
the  brave  pride  and  joy  of  girlhood.  It  would  probably 
never  wholly  return. 

He  saw  as  in  a  vision  the  infinite  procession  of  her 
hopeless  sisters  who  had  traveled  the  road  from  which  he 
was  rescuing  her,  saw  them  first  as  sv^et  and  merry 
children  bubbling  with  joy,  and  again,  after  the  world 


TIIE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND  UP  131 

had  misused  them  for  its  pleasure,  haggard  and  tawdry, 
with  dragging  steps  trailing  toward  the  oblivion  that 
awaited  them.  He  wondered  if  life  must  always  be  so 
terribly  wasted,  made  a  bruised  and  broken  thing  in- 
stead of  the  fine,  brave  adventure  for  which  it  was 
meant, 


CHAPTER  XVH 
:1OHNNIE  MAKES  A  JOKE 

As  Kitty  stepped  from  the  cab  she  was  trembling 
lently. 

"  Don't  you  be  frightened,  li'l'  pardner.  You  Ve  come 
home.  There  won't  anybody  hurt  you  here." 

The  soft  drawl  of  Clay's  voice  carried  inexpressible 
comfort.  So  too  did  the  pressure  of  his  strong  hand  on 
her  arm.  She  knew  not  only  that  he  was  a  man  to  trust, 
but  that  so  far  as  could  be  he  would  take  her  troubles  on 
his  broad  shoulders.  Tears  brimmed  over  her  soft  eyes. 

The  Arizonan  ran  her  up  to  his  floor  in  the  automatic 
elevator. 

"I've  got  a  friend  from  home  stayin*  with  me.  He's 
the  best-hearted  fellow  you  ever  saw.  You'll  sure  like 
Mm,"  he  told  her  without  stress  as  he  fitted  his  key  to 
the  lock. 

He  felt  her  shrink  beneath  his  coat,  but  it  was  too  late 
to  draw  back  now.  In  another  moment  Lindsay  was 
introducing  her  casually  to  the  embarrassed  and  aston- 
ished joint  proprietor  of  the  apartment. 

The  Runt  was  coatless  and  in  his  stockinged-feet.  He 
had  been  playing  a  doleful  ditty  on  a  mouth-organ. 
Caught  so  unexpectedly,  he  blushed  a  beautiful  brick 
red  to  his  neck. 

Johnnie  ducked  his  head  and  scraped  the  carpet  with 
his  foot  in  an  attempt  at  a  bow.  "Glad  to  meet  up  with 
you-all,  Miss.  Hope  you're  feelin'  tol'able." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  133 

Clay  slipped  the  coat  from  her  shoulders  and  saw  that 
the  girl  was  wet  to  the  skin. 

"Heat  some  water,  Johnnie,  and  make  a  good  stiff 
toddy.  Miss  Kitty  has  been  out  in  the  rain." 

He  lit  the  gas-log  and  from  his  bedroom  brought 
towels,  a  bathrobe,  pajamas,  a  sweater,  and  woolen 
slippers.  On  a  lounge  before  the  fire  he  dumped  the 
clothes  he  had  gathered.  He  drew  up  the  easiest  arm- 
chair in  the  room. 

"I'm  goin'  to  the  kitchen  to  jack  up  Johnnie  so  he 
won't  lay  down  on  his  job,"  he  told  her  cheerily.  "You 
take  yore  time  and  get  into  these  dry  clothes.  We'll 
not  disturb  you  till  you  knock.  After  that  we  '11  feed  you 
some  chuck.  You  want  to  brag  on  Johnnie's  cookin*. 
He  thinks  he's  it  when  it  comes  to  monkeyin'  'round 
a  stove." 

When  her  timid  knock  came  her  host  brought  in  ft 
steaming  cup.  "You  drink  this.  It'll  warm  you  good." 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  shyly. 

"Medicine,"  he  smiled.  "Doctor's  orders." 

While  she  sipped  the  toddy  Johnnie  brought  from  the 
kitchen  a  tray  upon  which  were  tea,  fried  potatoes,  ham, 
eggs,  and  buttered  toast. 

The  girl  ate  ravenously.  It  was  an  easy  guess  that  she 
had  not  before  tasted  food  that  day. 

Clay  kept  up  a  flow  of  talk,  mostly  about  Johnnie's 
culinary  triumphs.  Meanwhile  he  made  up  a  bed  on  the 
couch. 

Once  she  looked  up  at  him,  her  throat  swollen  with 
emotion.  "You're  good." 

"Sho!  We  been  needin'  a  liT  sister  to  brace  up  our 


134  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

manners  for  us.  It's  lucky  for  us  I  found  you.  Now  I 
expect  you  're  tired  and  sleepy.  We  fixed  up  yore  bed  in 
here  because  it's  warmer.  You'll  be  able  to  make  out 
(vith  it  all  right.  The  springs  are  good."  Clay  left  her 
with  a  cheerful  smile.  "Turn  out  the  light  before  you 
go  to  bed,  Miss  Colorado.  Sleep  tight.  And  don't  you 
worry.  You're  back  with  old  home  folks  again  now, 
you  know." 

They  heard  her  moving  about  for  a  time.  Presently 
came  silence.  Tired  out  from  tramping  the  streets  with- 
out food  and  drowsy  from  the  toddy  she  had  taken, 
Kitty  fell  into  deep  sleep  undisturbed  by  troubled 
dreams. 

The  cattleman  knew  he  had  found  her  in  the  nick  of 
time.  She  had  told  him  that  she  had  no  money,  no  room 
in  which  to  sleep,  no  prospect  of  work.  Everything  she 
had  except  the  clothes  on  her  back  had  been  pawned  to 
buy  food  and  lodgings.  But  she  was  young  and  resilient. 
When  she  got  back  home  to  the  country  where  she  be- 
longed, time  would  obliterate  from  her  mind  the  experi- 
ences of  which  she  had  been  the  victim. 

It  was  past  midday  when  Kitty  woke.  She  heard  a 
tuneless  voice  in  the  kitchen  lifted  up  in  a  doleful  song: 

"There's  hard  times  on  old  Bitter  Creek 

That  never  can  be  beat. 
It  was  root  hog  or  die 
Under  every  wagon  sheet. 
We  cleared  up  all  the  Indians, 
Drank  all  the  alkali, 

And  it's  whack  the  cattle  on,  boys  — 
Root  hog  or  die." 

Kitty  found  her  clothes  dry.  After  she  dressed  she 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  135 

opened  the  door  that  led  to  the  kitchen.  Johnnie  was 
near  the  end  of  another  stanza  of  his  sad  song: 

"Oh,  I'm  go  in'  home 

Bull-whackin'  for  to  spurn ; 
I  ain't  got  a  nickel, 
And  I  don't  give  a  dern. 
'T  is  when  I  meet  a  pretty  girl, 
You  bet  I  will  or  try, 

I  'II  make  her  my  little  wife  — 
Root  hog  —  " 

He  broke  off  embarrassed.  "Did  I  wake  you-all, 
ma'am,  with  my  fool  singin'?  I'm  right  sorry  if  I 
did." 

"You  did  n't,"  Kitty,  clinging  shyly  to  the  side  of  the 
doorway,  tried  to  gain  confidence  from  his  unease.  "T 
was  already  awake.  Is  it  a  range  song  you  were  singing?" 

"Yes'm.  Cattle  range,  not  kitchen  range." 

A  wan  little  smile  greeted  his  joke.  The  effect  on 
Johnnie  himself  was  more  pronounced.  It  gave  him  con- 
fidence in  his  ability  to  meet  the  situation.  He  had  not 
known  before  that  he  was  a  wit  and  the  discovery  of  it 
tickled  his  self-esteem. 

"  'Course  we  did  n't  really  clean  up  no  Indians  nor 
drink  all  the  alkali.  Tha's  jes'  in  the  song,  as  you  might 
say."  He  began  to  bustle  about  in  preparation  for  her 
breakfast. 

"Please  don't  trouble.  I'll  eat  what  you've  got 
cooked,"  she  begged. 

"It's  no  trouble,  ma'am.  If  the's  a  thing  on  earth  I 
enjoy  doin'  it's  sure  cookin'.  Do  you  like  yore  aigs 
sunny  side  up  or  turned?" 

"Either  way.  Whichever  you  like,  Mr.  Green.* 


136  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"You're  eatin'  them,"  Johnnie  reminded  her  with  a 
grin. 

"On  one  side,  then,  please.  Mr.  Lindsay  says  you're  a 
fine  cook." 

"Sho!  I'm  no  great  shakes.  Clay  he  jes'  brags  on  me." 

"Lemme  eat  here  in  the  kitchen.  Then  you  won't  have 
to  set  the  table  in  the  other  room,"  she  said. 

The  puncher's  instinct  was  to  make  a  spread  on  the 
dining-table  for  her,  but  it  came  to  him  with  a  flash  of 
insight  that  it  would  be  wise  to  let  her  eat  in  the  kitchen. 
She  would  feel  more  as  though  she  belonged  and  was  not 
a  guest  of  an  hour. 

While  she  ate  he  waited  on  her  solicitously.  Inside,  he 
was  a  river  of  tears  for  her,  but  with  it  went  a  good  deal 
of  awe.  Even  now,  wan-eyed  and  hollow-cheeked,  she 
was  attractive.  In  Johnnie's  lonesome  life  he  had  never 
before  felt  so  close  to  a  girl  as  he  did  to  this  one.  More- 
over, for  the  first  time  he  felt  master  of  the  situation.  It 
was  his  business  to  put  their  guest  at  her  ease.  That  was 
what  Clay  had  told  him  to  do  before  he  left. 

"You  're  the  doctor,  ma'am.  You  '11  eat  where  you  say.*' 

"I  —  I  don't  like  to  be  so  much  bother  to  you,"  she 
said  again.  "Maybe  I  can  go  away  this  afternoon." 

"  No,  ma'am,  we  won't  have  that  a-tall,"  broke  in  the 
range-rider  in  alarm.  "We're  plumb  tickled  to  have  you 
here.  Clay  he  feels  thataway  too." 

"I  could  keep  house  for  you  while  I  stay,"  she  sug- 
gested timidly.  "I  know  how  to  cook  —  and  the  place 
does  need  cleaning." 

"Sure  it  does.  Say,  wha's  the  matter  with  you  bein* 
Clay's  sister,  jes'  got  in  last  night  on  the  train?  Tha's  the 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  iff? 

jtory  we'll  put  up  to  the  landlord  if  you'll  gimme  the 
word." 

"I  never  had  a  brother,  but  if  I'd  had  one  I'd  'a* 
wanted  him  to  be  like  Mr.  Lindsay,"  she  told  his  friend. 

"Say,  ain't  he  a  go-getter?"  cried  Johnnie  eagerly. 
"Clay's  sure  one  straight-up  son-of-a-gun.  You'd  ought 
to  'a'  seen  how  he  busted  New  York  open  to  find  you." 

"Did  he?" 

Johnnie  told  the  story  of  the  search  with  special  em- 
phasis on  the  night  Clay  broke  into  three  houses  in 
answer  to  her  advertisement. 

"I  never  wrote  it.  I  never  thought  of  that.  It  must 
have  been  — 

"It  was  that  scalawag  Durand,  y'betcha.  I  ain't  still 
wearin'  my  pinfeathers  none.  Tha's  who  it  was.  I  'm  not 
liable  to  forget  him.  He  knocked  me  hell-west  and  silly 
whilst  I  was  n't  lookin'.  He  was  sore  because  Clay  had 
fixed  his  clock  proper."' 

"So  you've  fought  on  account  of  me  too.  I'm 
sorry."  There  was  a  little  break  in  her  voice.  "  I  s'pose 
you  hate  me  for  —  for  bein'  the  way  I  am.  I  know  I 
hate  myself."  She  choked  on  the  food  she  was  eating. 

Johnnie,  much  distressed,  put  down  the  coffee-pot  and 
fluttered  near.  "Don't  you  take  on,  ma'am.  I  wisht  I 
could  tell  you  how  pleased  we-all  are  to  he'p  you.  I  hope 
you'll  stay  with  us  right  along.  I  sure  do.  You'd  be 
right  welcome,"  he  concluded  bashfully. 

"I've  got  no  place  to  go,  except  back  home  —  and 
I've  got  no  folks  there  but  a  second  cousin.  She  does  n't 
want  me.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  If  I  had  a  woman 
friend  —  some  one  to  tell  me  what  was  best  - 


138  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Johnnie  slapped  his  hand  on  his  knee,  struck  by  a 
sudden  inspiration.  "Say!  Y'betcha,  by  jollies,  I've  got 
'er  —  the  very  one !  You  're  damn  —  you  're  sure  whis- 
tlin'.  We  got  a  lady  friend,  Clay  and  me,  the  finest  little 
pilgrim  in  New  York.  She's  sure  there  when  the  gong 
strikes.  You  'd  love  her.  I  '11  fix  it  for  you  —  right  away. 
I  got  to  go  to  her  house  this  afternoon  an'  do  some 
chores.  I'll  bet  she  comes  right  over  to  see  you." 

Kitty  was  doubtful.  She  did  not  want  to  take  any 
strange  young  women  into  her  confidence  until  she  had 
seen  them.  More  than  one  good  Pharisee  had  burned  her 
face  with  a  look  of  scornful  contempt  in  the  past  weeks. 

"Maybe  we  better  wait  and  speak  to  Mr.  Lindsay 
about  it,"  she  said. 

"No,  ma'am,  you  don't  know  Miss  Beatrice.  She's 
the  best  friend."  He  passed  her  the  eggs  and  a  confidence 
at  the  same  time.  "  Why,  I  should  n't  wonder  but  what 
she  and  Clay  might  get  married  one  o*  these  days.  He 
thinks  a  lot  of  her." 

"Oh."  Kitty  knew  just  a  little  more  of  human  nature 
than  the  puncher.  "Then  I  would  n't  tell  her  about  me  if 
I  was  you.  She  would  n't  like  my  bein*  here." 

"Sho!  You  don't  know  Miss  Beatrice.  She  grades  'way 
up.  I'll  bet  she  likes  you  fine." 

When  Johnnie  left  to  go  to  work  that  afternoon  he 
took  with  him  a  resolution  to  lay  the  whole  case  before 
Beatrice  Whitford.  She  would  fix  things  all  right.  No 
need  for  anybody  to  worry  after  she  took  a  hand  and 
began  to  run  things.  If  there  was  one  person  on  earth 
Johnnie  could  bank  on  without  fail  it  was  his  little  boss. 


CHAPTER 
BEATRICE  GIVES  AN  OPTION 

IT  was  not  until  Johnnie  had  laid  the  case  before  Miss 
Whitford  and  restated  it  under  the  impression  that  sho 
could  not  have  understood  that  his  confidence  ebbed. 
Even  then  he  felt  that  he  must  have  bungled  it  in  the 
telling  and  began  to  marshal  his  facts  a  third  time.  He 
had  expected  an  eager  interest,  a  quick  enthusiasm.  I  - 
stead,  he  found  in  his  young  mistress  a  spirit  beyond 
his  understanding.  Her  manner  had  a  touch  of  coo? 
disdain,  almost  of  contempt,  wLile  she  listened  to  hie 
tale.  This  was  not  at  all  in  the  picture  he  had 
planned. 

She  asked  no  questions  and  made  no  comments.  What 
he  had  to  tell  met  with  chill  silence.  Johnnie's  guileless 
narrative  had  made  clear  to  her  that  Clay  had  brought 
Kitty  home  about  midnight,  had  mixed  a  drink  for  her, 
and  had  given  her  his  own  clothes  to  replace  her  wet  ones. 
Somehow  the  cattleman's  robe,  pajamas,  and  bedroom 
slippers  obtruded  unduly  from  his  friend's  story.  Even 
the  Runt  felt  this.  He  began  to  perceive  himself  a  help- 
less medium  of  wrong  impressions.  When  he  tried  to  ex- 
plain he  made  matters  worse. 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  when  the  manager  of  your 
apartment  house  finds  out  she's  there  he'll  send  her 
packing."  So  Beatrice  summed  up  when  she  spoke  at 
last. 

"No,  ma'am,  I  reckon  not.  You  see  we  done  told 


140  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-U? 

him  she  is  Clay's  sister  jes*  got  in  from  the  West," 
the  puncher  explained. 

"Oh,  I  see."  The  girl's  lip  curled  and  her  clean-cut 
chin  lifted  a  trifle.  "You  don't  seem  to  have  overlooked 
anything.  No,  I  don't  think  I  care  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  your  arrangements." 

" She's  an  awful  pretty  cute  little  thing,"  the  puncher 
added,  hoping  to  modify  her  judgment. 

"Indeed!" 

Beatrice  turned  and  walked  swiftly  into  the  house.  A 
pulse  of  anger  was  beating  in  her  soft  throat.  She  felt  a 
sense  of  outrage.  To  Clay  Lindsay  she  had  given  herself 
generously  in  spirit.  She  had  risked  something  in  in- 
troducing him  to  her  friends.  They  might  have  laughed 
at  him  for  his  slight  social  lapses.  They  might  have  re- 
jected him  for  his  lack  of  background.  They  had  done 
neither.  He  was  so  genuinely  a  man  that  he  had  won  his 
way  instantly.  In  this  City  of  Bluff,  as  O.  Henry  dubs 
New  York,  his  simplicity  had  rung  true  as  steel.  Still, 
she  had  taken  a  chance  and  felt  she  deserved  some  recog- 
nition of  it  on  his  part.  This  he  had  never  given.  He  had 
based  their  friendship  on  equality  simply.  She  liked  it  in 
him,  though  her  vanity  had  resented  it  a  little.  But  this 
was  different.  She  was  still  young  enough,  still  so  little  a 
woman  of  the  world,  that  she  set  a  rigid  standard  which 
she  expected  her  friends  to  meet.  She  had  believed  in 
Clay,  and  now  he  was  failing  her. 

Pacing  up  and  down  her  room,  little  fists  clenched, 
her  soul  in  passionate  turmoil,  Beatrice  went  over  it  all 
again  as  she  had  done  through  a  sleepless  night.  She  had 
given  him  so  much,  and  he  had  seemed  to  give  her  even 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  141 

more.  Hours  filled  with  a  keen-edged  delight  jumped  to 
her  memory,  hours  that  had  carried  her  away  from  the 
falseness  of  social  fribble  to  clean,  wind-swept,  open 
spaces  of  the  mind.  And  after  this  —  after  he  had  tacitly 
recognized  her  claim  on  him  —  he  had  insulted  her  be- 
fore her  friends  by  deserting  his  guests  to  go  off  with  this 
hussy  he  had  been  spending  weeks  to  search  for. 

Now  his  little  henchman  had  the  imbecility  to  as*c 
her  help  while  this  girl  was  living  at  Clay  Lindsay's 
apartment,  passing  herself  off  as  his  sister,  and  propos- 
ing to  stay  there  ostensibly  as  the  housekeeper.  She  felt 
degraded,  humiliated,  she  told  herself.  Not  for  a  mo- 
ment did  she  admit,  perhaps  she  did  not  know,  that  an 
insane  jealousy  was  flooding  her  being,  that  her  indigna- 
tion was  based  on  personal  as  well  as  moral  grounds. 

Something  primitive  stirred  in  her  —  a  flare  of  femi- 
nine ferocity.  She  felt  hot  to  the  touch,  an  active  volcano 
ready  for  eruption.  If  only  she  could  get  a  chance  to 
strike  back  in  a  way  that  would  hurt,  to  wound  him  as 
deeply  as  he  had  her! 

Pat  to  her  desire  came  the  opportunity.  Clay's  card 
was  brought  in  to  her  by  Jenkins. 

"Tell  Mr.  Lindsay  I'll  see  him  in  a  few  minutes,"  she 
told  the  man. 

The  few  minutes  stretched  to  a  long  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  she  descended.  To  the  outward  eye  at  least  Miss 
Whitford  looked  a  woman  of  the  world,  sheathed  in  a 
plate  armor  of  conventionality.  As  soon  as  his  eyes  fell  on 
her  Clay  knew  that  this  pale,  slim  girl  in  the  close-fitting 
gown  was  a  stranger  to  him.  Her  eyes,  star-bright  and 
burning  like  li ve  coals,  warned  him  that  the  friend  whose 


142  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

youth  had  run  out  so  eagerly  to  meet  his  was  hidden 
deep  in  her  to-day. 

"I  reckon  I  owe  you  and  Mr.  Whitford  an  apology,** 
he  said.  "No  need  to  tell  you  how  I  happened  to  leave 
last  night.  I  expect  you  know." 

"I  know  why  you  left  —  yes." 

"I'd  like  to  explain  it  to  you  so  you'll  understand.'* 

"Why  take  the  trouble?  I  think  I  understand."  She 
spoke  in  an  even,  schooled  voice  that  set  him  at  a  dis- 
tance. 

"Still,  I  want  you  to  know  how  I  feel." 

"Is  that  important?  I  see  what  you  do.  That  is 
enough.  Your  friend  Mr.  Green  has  carefully  brought 
me  the  details  I  did  n't  know." 

Clay  flushed.  Her  clear  voice  carried  an  edge  of  scorn. 
"You  mustn't  judge  by  appearances.  I  know  you 
would  n't  be  unfair.  I  had  to  take  her  home  and  look 
after  her." 

"I  don't  quite  see  why  —  unless,  of  course,  you 
wanted  to,"  the  girl  answered,  tapping  the  arm  of  her 
chair  with  impatient  finger-tips,  eyes  on  the  clock.  "But 
of  course  it  is  n't  necessary  I  should  see." 

Her  cavalier  treatment  of  him  did  not  affect  the  gentle 
imperturbability  of  the  Westerner. 

"Because  I'm  a  white  man,  because  she's  a  little  girl 
who  came  from  my  country  and  can't  hold  her  own  here, 
because  she  was  sick  and  chilled  and  starving.  Do  you 
see  now?" 

"No,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  I'm  not  the  keeper  of 
your  conscience,  Mr.  Lindsay,"  she  countered,  with  hard 
lightness. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  143 

"You're  judging  me  just  the  same." 

Her  eyes  attacked  him.  "Am  I?" 

"Yes."  The  level  gaze  of  the  man  met  hers  calmly. 
"What  have  I  done  that  you  don't  like?" 

She  lost  some  of  her  debonair  insolence  that  expressed 
itself  in  indifference. 

"I'd  ask  that  if  I  were  you,"  she  cried  scornfully. 
"  Can  you  tell  me  that  this  —  friend  of  yours  —  is  a 
good  girl?" 

"I  think  so.  She's  been  up  against  it.  Whatever  she 
may  have  done  she's  been  forced  to  do." 

"Excuses,"  she  murmured. 

"If  you 'd  ever  known  what  it  was  to  be  starving  — " 

Her  smoldering  anger  broke  into  a  flame.  "Good  of 
you  to  compare  me  with  her!  That's  the  last  straw!" 

"I'm  not  comparing  you.  I'm  merely  saying  that  you 
can't  judge  her.  How  could  you,  when  your  life  has  been 
so  different?" 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that." 

"If  you'd  let  me  bring  her  here  to  see  you  — '* 

"No,  thanks." 

"You 're  unjust." 

"You  think  so?" 

"And  unkind.  That's  not  like  the  little  friend  I've 
come  to  —  like  so  much." 

"  You  're  kind  enough  for  two,  Mr.  Lindsay.  She  really 
does  n't  need  another  friend  so  long  as  she  has  you,"  she 
retorted  with  a  flash  of  contemptuous  eyes.  "In  New 
York  we're  not  used  to  being  so  kind  to  people  of  her 
sort." 

Clay  lifted  a  hand.  "Stop  right  there,  Miss  Beatrice. 


'144  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

You  don't  want  to  say  anything  you  'II  be  sorry  for." 

"I'll  say  this,"  she  cut   back.  "The  men  I  know 
would  n't  invite  a  woman  to  their  rooms  at  midnight 
and  pass  her  off  as  their  sister  —  and  then  expect  people 
to  know  her.  They  would  be  kinder  to  themselves  - 
and  to  their  own  reputations." 

She  was  striking  out  savagely,  relentlessly,  in  spite 
of  the  better  judgment  that  whispered  restraint.  She 
wanted  desperately  to  hurt  him,  as  he  had  hurt  her,  even 
though  she  had  to  behave  badly  to  do  it. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  else  there  was  to  do?  Where 
could  I  have  taken  her  at  that  time  of  night?  Are  repu- 
table hotels  open  at  midnight  to  lone  women,  wet  and 
ragged,  who  come  without  baggage  either  alone  or  es- 
corted by  a  man?" 

"I'm  not  telling  you  what  you  ought  to  have  done, 
Mr.  Lindsay,"  she  answered  with  a  touch  of  hauteur. 
"But  since  you  ask  me  —  why  could  n't  you  have  given 
her  money  and  let  her  find  a  place  for  herself?" 

"Because  that  would  n't  have  saved  her." 

"Oh,  would  n't  it?"  she  retorted  dryly. 

He  walked  over  to  the  fireplace  and  put  an  elbow  on 
the  corner  of  the  mantel.  The  blood  leaped  in  the  veins 
of  the  girl  as  she  looked  at  him,  a  man  strong  as  tested 
steel,  quiet  and  forceful,  carrying  his  splendid  body  with 
the  sinuous  grace  that  comes  only  from  perfectly  syn- 
chronized muscles.  At  that  moment  she  hated  him  be- 
cause she  could  not  put  him  in  the  wrong. 

"Lemme  tell  you  a  story,  Miss  Beatrice,"  he  said 
presently.  "Mebbe  it'll  show  you  what  I  mean.  I  was 
runnin'  cattle  in  the  Galiuros  five  years  ago  and  I  got 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  146 

caught  in  a  storm  'way  up  in  the  hills.  When  it  rains  in 
my  part  of  Arizona,  which  ain't  often,  it  sure  does  come 
down  in  sheets.  The  clay  below  the  rubble  on  the  slopes* 
got  slick  as  ice.  My  hawss,  a  young  one,  slipped  and  fel1 
on  me,  clawed  back  to  its  feet,  and  bolted.  Well,  there  I 
was  with  my  laig  busted,  forty  miles  from  even  a  whis- 
tlin'  post  in  the  desert,  gettin'  wetter  and  colder  every 
blessed  minute.  Heaps  of  times  in  my  life  I've  felt  more 
comfortable  than  I  did  right  then.  I  was  hogtied  to  that 
shale  ledge  with  my  broken  ankle,  as  you  might  say.  And 
the  weather  and  my  game  laig  and  things  generally  kept 
gettin'  no  better  right  along  hour  after  hour. 

"There  was  n't  a  chance  in  a  million  that  anybody 
would  hear,  but  I  kept  firin'  off  my  fohty-five  on  the  off 
hope.  And  just  before  night  a  girl  on  a  pinto  came  down 
the  side  of  that  uncurried  hill  round  a  bend  and  got  me. 
She  took  me  to  a  cabin  hidden  in  the  bottom  of  a  canon 
and  looked  after  me  four  days.  Her  father,  a  prospector, 
had  gone  into  Tucson  for  supplies  and  we  were  alone 
there.  She  fed  me,  nursed  me,  and  waited  on  me.  We 
divided  a  one-room  twelve-by-sixteen  cabin.  Under- 
stand, we  were  four  days  alone  together  before  her  dad 
came  back,  and  all  the  time  the  sky  was  lettin'  down  a 
terrible  lot  of  water.  When  her  father  showed  up  he 
grinned  and  said,  'Lucky  for  you  Myrtle  heard  that  six- 
gun  of  yore's  pop!'  He  never  thought  one  evil  thing 
about  either  of  us.  He  just  accepted  the  situation  as 
necessary.  Now  the  question  is,  what  ought  she  to  have 
done?  Left  me  to  die  on  that  hillside?" 

"Of  course  not.  That's  different,"  protested  Beatrice 
indignantly. 


146  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"I  don't  see  it.  What  she  did  was  more  embarrassing 
for  her  than  what  I  did  for  Kitty.  At  least  it  would  have 
been  mightily  so  if  she  had  n't  used  her  good  hawss  sense 
and  forgot  that  she  was  a  lone  young  female  and  I  was  a 
man.  That's  what  I  did  the  other  night.  Just  because 
there  are  seven  or  eight  million  human  beings  here  the 
obligation  to  look  out  for  Kitty  was  no  less." 

"New  York  is  n't  Arizona." 

"You  bet  it  ain't.  We  don't  sit  roostin'  on  a  fence 
when  folks  need  our  help  out  there.  We  go  to  it." 

"You  can't  do  that  sort  of  thing  here.  People  talk." 

"Sure,  and  hens  cackle.  Let  'em!" 

"There  are  some  things  men  don't  understand,"  she 
told  him  with  an  acid  little  smile  of  superiority.  "When 
a  girl  cries  a  little  they  think  she's  heartbroken.  Very 
likely  she's  laughing  at  them  up  her  sleeve.  This  girl's 
making  a  fool  of  you,  if  you  want  the  straight  truth." 

"I  don't  think  so." 

His  voice  was  so  quietly  confident  it  nettled  her. 

"I  suppose,  then,  you  think  I'm  ungenerous,"  she 
charged. 

The  deep-set  gray-blue  eyes  looked  at  her  steadily. 
There  was  a  wise  little  smile  in  them. 

"Is  that  what  you  think?"  she  charged. 

"I  think  you'll  be  sorry  when  you  think  it  over." 

She  was  annoyed  at  her  inability  to  shake  him,  at  the 
steadfastness  with  which  he  held  to  his  point  of  view. 

"You're  trying  to  put  me  in  the  wrong,"  she  flamed. 
"Well,  I  won't  have  it.  That's  all.  You  may  take  your 
choice,  Mr.  Lindsay.  Either  send  that  girl  away  —  give 
her  up  —  have  nothing  to  do  with  her,  or  — " 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  147 

"Or—?** 

"Or  please  don't  come  here  to  see  me  any  more." 

He  waited,  his  eyes  steadily  on  her.  "Do  you  sure 
enough  mean  that,  Miss  Beatrice?" 

Her  heart  sank.  She  knew  she  had  gone  too  far,  but 
she  was  too  imperious  to  draw  back  now. 

"Yes,  that's  just  what  I  mean." 

"I'm  sorry.  You're  leavin'  me  no  option.  I'm  not  a 
yellow  dog  Sometimes  I'm  'most  a  man.  I'm  goin'  to  do 
what  I  think  is  right." 

"Of  course,"  she  responded  lightly.  "If  our  ideas  of 
what  that  is  differ  — " 

"They  do." 

"It's  because  we've  been  brought  up  differently,  I 
suppose."  She  achieved  a  stifled  little  yawn  behind  her 
hand. 

"You've  said  it."  He  gave  it  to  her  straight  from  the 
shoulder.  "All  yore  life  you've  been  pampered.  When 
you  wanted  a  thing  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  reach  out  a 
hand  for  it.  Folks  were  born  to  wait  on  you,  by  yore  way 
of  it.  You're  a  spoiled  kid.  You  keep  these  manicured 
lah-de-dah  New  York  lads  steppin'.  Good  enough.  Be  as 
high-heeled  as  you're  a  mind  to.  I'll  step  some  too  for 
you  —  when  you  smile  at  me  right.  But  it's  time  to 
serve  notice  that  in  my  country  folks  grow  man-size.  You 
ask  me  to  climb  up  the  side  of  a  house  to  pick  you  a  bit 
of  ivy  from  under  the  eaves,  and  I  reckon  I'll  take  a 
whirl  at  it.  But  you  ask  me  to  turn  my  back  on  a  friend, 
and  I've  got  to  say,  'Nothin'  doin'. '  And  if  you  was  just 
a  few  years  younger  I'd  advise  yore  pa  to  put  you  in 
yore  room  and  feed  you  bread  and  water  for  askin'  it," 


148  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

The  angry  color  poured  into  her  cheeks.  She  clenched 
her  hands  till  the  nails  bit  her  palms.  "I  think  you're 
the  most  hateful  man  I  ever  met,"  she  cried  passionately. 

His  easy  smile  taunted  her.  "Oh,  no,  you  don't.  You 
just  think  you  think  it.  Now,  I'm  goin'  to  light  a  shuck. 
I'll  be  sayin'  good-bye,  Miss  Beatrice,  until  you  send  for 
me." 

"And  that  will  be  never,"  she  flung  at  him. 

He  rose,  bowed,  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

The  street  door  closed  behind  him.  Beatrice  bit  her 
lip  to  keep  from  breaking  down  before  she  reached  her 
room. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
A  LADY  WEARS  A  RING 

CLARENDON  BROMFIELD  got  the  shock  of  his  life  that 
evening.  Beatrice  proposed  to  him.  It  was  at  the  Rober- 
son  dinner-dance,  in  the  Palm  Room,  within  sight  but 
not  within  hearing  of  a  dozen  other  guests. 

She  camouflaged  what  she  was  doing  with  occasional 
smiles  and  ripples  of  laughter  intended  to  deceive  the 
others  present,  but  her  heart  was  pounding  sixty  miles 
an  hour. 

Bromfield  was  not  easily  disconcerted.  He  prided  him- 
self on  his  aplomb.  It  was  hard  to  get  behind  his  cynical, 
decorous  smile,  the  mask  of  a  suave  and  worldly-wise 
Pharisee  of  the  twentieth  century.  But  for  once  he  was 
amazed.  The  orchestra  was  playing  a  lively  fox  trot 
and  he  thought  that  perhaps  he  had  not  caught  her 
meaning. 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

Miss  Whitford  laced  her  fingers  round  her  knee  and 
repeated.  It  was  as  though  rose  leaves  had  brushed  the 
ivory  of  her  cheeks  and  left  a  lovely  stain  there.  Her 
eyes  were  hard  and  brilliant  as  diamonds. 

"I  was  wondering  when  you  are  going  to  ask  me  again 
to  marry  you." 

Since  she  had  given  a  good  deal  of  feminine  diplomacy 
to  the  task  of  keeping  him  at  a  reasonable  distance, 
Bromfield  was  naturally  surprised. 


150  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"That's  certainly  a  leading  question,"  he  parried. 
"What  are  you  up  to,  Bee?  Are  you  spoofing  me?'* 

"I'm  proposing  to  you,"  she  explained,  with  a  flirt  of 
her  hand  and  an  engaging  smile  toward  a  man  and  a 
girl  who  had  just  come  into  the  Palm  Room.  "I  don't 
suppose  I  do  it  very  well  because  I  have  n't  had  your 
experience.  But  I'm  doing  the  best  I  can." 

The  New  Yorker  was  a  supple  diplomatist.  If  Beatrice 
had  chosen  this  place  and  hour  to  become  engaged  to 
him,  he  had  no  objection  in  the  world.  The  endearments 
that  usually  marked  such  an  event  could  wait.  But  he 
was  not  quite  sure  of  his  ground. 

His  lids  narrowed  a  trifle.  "Do  you  mean  that  you've 
changed  your  mind?" 

"Have  you?"  she  asked  quickly  with  a  sidelong  slant 
of  eyes  at  him. 

"Do  I  act  as  though  I  had?" 

"You  don't  help  a  fellow  out  much,  Clary,"  she  com- 
plained with  a  laugh  not  born  of  mirth.  "I'll  never  pro- 
pose to  you  again." 

"I'm  still  very  much  at  your  service,  Bee." 

"Does  that  mean  you  still  think  you  want  me?" 

"I  don't  think.  I  know  it." 

"Quite  sure?" 

"Quite  sure." 

"Then  you're  on,"  she  told  him  with  a  little  nod. 
''Thank  you,  kind  sir." 

Bromfield  drew  a  deep  breath.  "By  Jove,  you're  a 
good  little  sport.  Bee.  I  think  I'll  get  up  and  give  three 
ringing  cheers." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  do  that,"  she  mocked. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  151 

"Of  course  you  know  I'm  the  happiest  man  in  the 
world,"  he  said  with  well-ordered  composure. 

"You're  not  exactly  what  I'd  call  a  rapturous  lover, 
Clary.  But  I  'm  not  either  for  that  matter,  so  I  dare  say 
we'll  hit  it  off  very  well." 

"I'm  a  good  deal  harder  hit  than  I've  ever  let  on, 
dear  girl.  And  I'm  going  to  make  you  very  happy. 
That's  a  promise." 

Nevertheless  he  watched  her  warily  behind  a  manner 
of  graceful  eagerness.  There  had  been  a  suggestion 
almost  of  bitterness  in  her  voice.  A  suspicious  little 
thought  was  filtering  through  the  back  of  his  mind. 
"What  the  deuce  has  got  into  the  girl?  Has  she  been 
quarreling  with  that  bounder  from  Arizona?" 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  I'll  try  to  make  you  a  good  wife, 
even  if  -  "  She  let  the  sentence  die  out  unfinished. 

Beneath  her  fan  their  hands  met  for  a  moment. 

"May  I  tell  everybody  how  happy  I  am?" 

"If  you  like,"  she  agreed. 

"A  short  engagement,"  he  ventured. 

"Yes,"  she  nodded.  "And  take  me  away  for  a  while. 
I'm  tired  of  New  York,  I  think." 

"  I  '11  take  you  to  a  place  where  the  paths  are  primrose- 
strewn  and  where  nightingales  sing,"  he  promised  rashly. 

She  smiled  incredulously,  a  wise  old  little  smile  that 
had  no  right  on  her  young  face. 

The  report  of  the  engagement  spread  at  once.  Brom- 
field  took  care  of  that.  It  ran  like  wildfire  upstairs  and 
down  in  the  Whitford  establishment.  Naturally  Johnnie, 
who  was  neither  one  of  the  servants  nor  a  member  of  the 
family,  was  the  last  to  hear  of  it.  One  day  the  word  was 


153  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

carried  to  him,  and  a  few  hours  later  he  read  the  con- 
firmation of  it  on  the  hand  of  his  young  mistress. 

The  Runt  had  the  clairvoyance  of  love.  He  knew  that 
Clay  was  not  now  happy,  though  the  cattleman  gave  no 
visible  sign  of  it  except  a  certain  quiet  withdrawal  into 
himself.  He  ate  as  well  as  usual.  His  talk  was  cheerful. 
He  joked  the  puncher  and  made  Kitty  feel  at  home  by 
teasing  her.  In  the  evenings  he  shooed  out  the  pair  of 
them  to  a  moving-picture  show  and  once  or  twice  went 
along.  But  he  had  a  habit  of  falling  into  reflection,  his 
deep-set  eyes  fixed  on  some  object  he  could  not  see. 
Johnnie  worried  about  him. 

The  evening  of  the  day  the  Runt  heard  of  the  engage- 
ment he  told  his  friend  about  it  while  Kitty  was  in  the 
kitchen. 

"Miss  Beatrice  she's  wearin'  a  new  ring,"  he  said  by 
way  of  breaking  the  news  gently. 

Clay  turned  his  head  slowly  and  looked  at  Johnnie. 
He  waited  without  speaking. 

"I  heerd  it  to-day  from  one  of  the  help.  Then  I  seen  it 
on  her  finger,"  the  little  man  went  on  reluctantly. 

"Bromfield?"  asked  Clay. 

"Yep.  That's  the  story." 

"The  ring  was  on  the  left  hand?" 

"Yep." 

Clay  made  no  comment.  His  friend  knew  enough  to 
say  no  more  to  him.  Presently  the  cattleman  went  out. 
It  was  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  when  he  re- 
turned. He  had  been  tramping  the  streets  to  get  the  fever 
out  of  his  blood. 

But  Johnnie  discussed  with  Kitty  at  length  this  new 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  153 

development,  just  as  he  had  discussed  with  her  the  fact 
that  Clay  no  longer  went  to  see  the  Whitfords.  Kitty 
made  a  shrewd  guess  at  the  cause  of  division.  She  had 
already  long  since  drawn  from  the  cowpuncher  the  story 
of  how  Miss  Beatrice  had  rejected  his  proposal  that  she 
take  an  interest  in  her. 

"They  must  V  quarreled  —  likely  about  me  being 
here.  I  'm  sorry  you  told  her." 

"I  don't  reckon  that's  it."  Johnnie  scratched  his  head 
to  facilitate  the  process  of  thinking.  He  wanted  to  re- 
main loyal  to  all  of  his  three  friends.  "Miss  Beatrice 
she's  got  too  good  judgment  for  that." 

"I  ought  to  go  away.  I'm  only  bringing  Mr.  Lindsay 
trouble.  If  he  just  could  hear  from  his  friends  in  Arizona 
about  that  place  he's  trying  to  get  me,  I'd  go  right 
off." 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully.  The  bow-legged  range- 
rider  was  in  no  hurry  to  have  her  go.  She  was  the  first 
girl  who  had  ever  looked  twice  at  him,  the  first  one  he 
had  ever  taken  out  or  talked  nonsense  with  or  been  or- 
dered about  by  in  the  possessive  fashion  used  by  the 
modern  young  woman.  Hence  he  was  head  over  heels  in 
love. 

Kitty  had  begun  to  bloom  again.  Her  cheeks  were 
taking  on  their  old  rounded  contour  and  occasionally 
dimples  of  delight  flashed  into  them.  She  was  a  young 
person  who  lived  in  the  present.  Already  the  marks  of 
her  six-weeks  misery  among  the  submerged  derelicts  of 
the  city  was  beginning  to  be  wiped  from  her  mind  like 
the  memory  of  a  bad  dream  from  which  she  had  awak- 
ened. Love  was  a  craving  of  her  happy,  sensuous  nature* 


154  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

She  wanted  to  live  in  the  sun,  among  smiles  and  laughter. 
She  was  like  a  kitten  in  her  desire  to  be  petted,  made 
much  of,  and  admired.  Almost  anybody  who  liked  her 
could  win  a  place  in  her  affection. 

Johnnie's  case  was  not  so  hopeless  as  he  imagined  it 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  CAUTIOUS  GUY  SLIPS  UP 

OVER  their  good-night  smoke  Clay  gave  a  warning. 
"Keep  yore  eyes  open,  Johnnie.  I  was  trailed  to  the 
house  to-day  by  one  of  the  fellows  with  Durand  the  night 
I  called  on  him.  It  spells  trouble.  I  reckon  the  Taches 
are  going  to  leave  the  reservation  again." 

"Do  you  allow  that  skunk  is  aimin'  to  bushwhack 
you?" 

"He's  got  some  such  notion.  It's  a  cinch  he  ain*t 
through  with  me  yet." 

"Say,  Clay,  ain't  you  gettin'  homesick  for  the  whinin' 
of  a  rawhide?  Wha's  the  matter  with  us  hittin'  the  dust 
for  good  old  Tucson?  I'd  sure  like  to  chase  cowtails 
again." 

"You  can  go,  Johnnie.  I'm  not  ready  yet  —  quite. 
And  when  I  go  it  won't  be  because  of  any  rattlesnake  in 
the  grass." 

"Whadyou  mean  I  can  go?"  demanded  his  friend 
indignantly.  "I  don't  aim  to  go  and  leave  you  here 
alone." 

"Perhaps  I'll  be  along,  too,  after  a  little.  I'm  about 
fed  up  on  New  York." 

"Well,  I'll  stick  around  till  you  come.  If  this  Jerry 
Durand 's  trying  to  get  you  I'll  be  right  there  followin' 
yore  dust,  old  scout." 

"There's  more  than  one  way  to  skin  a  cat.  Mebbe  the 
fellow  means  to  strike  at  me  through  you  or  Kitty.  I've 


156  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

a  mind  to  put  you  both  on  a  train  for  the  B-in-a-Box 
Ranch." 

"You  can  put  the  KT  girl  on  a  train.  You  can't  put 
me  on  none  less'n  you  go  too,"  answered  his  shadow 
stoutly. 

"Then  see  you  don't  get  drawn  into  any  quarrels 
while  you  and  Batty  are  away  from  the  house.  Stick  to 
the  lighted  streets.  I  think  I'll  speak  to  her  about  not 
lettin'  any  strange  man  talk  to  her." 

"She  would  n't  talk  to  no  strange  man.  She  ain't  that 
kind,"  snorted  Johnnie. 

"Keep  yore  shirt  on,"  advised  Clay,  smiling.  "What 
I  mean  is  that  she  must  n't  let  herself  believe  the  first 
story  some  one  pulls  on  her.  I  think  she  had  better  not 
go  out  unless  one  of  us  is  with  her." 

"Suits  me." 

"I  thought  that  might  suit  you.  Well,  stick  to  main- 
traveled  roads  and  don't  take  any  chances.  If  you  get 
into  trouble,  yell  bloody  murder  poco  pronto." 

"And  don't  you  take  any,  old-timer.  That  goes  double. 
I'm  the  cautious  guy  in  this  outfit,  not  you." 

Within  twenty-four  hours  Clay  heard  some  one 
pounding  wildly  on  the  outer  door  of  the  apartment  and 
the  voice  of  the  cautious  guy  imploring  haste. 

"Lemme  in,  Clay.  Hurry!  Hurry!"  he  shouted. 

Lindsay  was  at  the  door  in  four  strides,  but  he  did  not 
need  to  see  the  stricken  woe  of  his  friend's  face  to  guess 
what  had  occurred.  For  Johnnie  and  Kitty  had  started 
together  to  see  a  picture  play  two  hours  earlier. 

"They  done  took  Kitty  —  in  an  auto,"  he  gasped. 
"Right  before  my  eyes.  Claimed  a  lady  had  fainted." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  157 

"Who  took  her?" 

"I  dunno.  Some  men.  Turned  the  trick  slick,  me 
never  liftin'  a  hand.  Ain't  I  a  heluva  man?" 

"Hold  yore  hawsses,  son.  Don't  get  excited.  Begin  at 
the  beginnin'  and  tell  me  all  about  it,"  Clay  told  him 
quietly. 

Already  he  was  kicking  off  his  house  slippers  and  was 
reaching  for  his  shoes. 

"We  was  comin'  home  an'  I  took  Kitty  into  that  Red 
Star  drug-store  for  to  get  her  some  ice  cream.  Well, 
right  after  that  I  heerd  a  man  say  how  the  lady  had 
fainted  —  " 

"What  lady?" 

"The  lady  in  the  machine." 

"Were  you  in  the  drug-store?" 

"No.  We'd  jes'  come  out  when  this  here  automobile 
drew  up  an'  a  man  jumped  out  hollerin*  the  lady  had 
fainted  and  would  I  bring  a  glass  o'  water  from  the  drug- 
store. 'Course  I  got  a  jump  on  me  and  Kitty  she  moved 
up  closeter  to  the  car  to  he'p  if  she  could.  When  I  got 
back  to  the  walk  with  the  water  the  man  was  hoppin* 
into  the  car.  It  was  already  movin'.  He  slammed  the 
door  shut  and  it  went  up  the  street  like  greased  lightnin'." 

"Was  it  a  closed  car?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"Can  you  describe  it?" 

"Why,  I  dunno—  " 

"Was  it  black,  brown,  white?" 

"Kinda  roan-colored,  looked  like." 

"Get  the  number?" 

"No,  I  —  I  plumb  forgot  to  look." 


158  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Clay  realized  that  Johnnie's  powers  of  observation 
were  not  to  be  trusted. 

"Sure  the  car  was  n't  tan-colored?"  he  asked  to  test 
him. 
.  "It  might  'a'  been  tan,  come  to  think  of  it." 

"You're  right  certain  Kitty  was  in  it?" 

"I  heerd  her  holler  from  inside.  She  called  my  name. 
I  run  after  the  car,  but  I  could  n't  catch  it." 

Clay  slipped  a  revolver  under  his  belt.  He  slid  into  a 
street  coat.  Then  he  got  police  headquarters  on  the  wire 
and  notified  the  office  of  what  had  taken  place.  He  knew 
that  the  word  would  be  flashed  in  all  directions  and  that 
a  cordon  would  be  stretched  across  the  city  to  intercept 
any  suspicious  car.  Over  the  telephone  the  desk  man  at 
headquarters  fired  questions  at  him,  most  of  which  he 
was  unable  to  answer.  He  promised  fuller  particulars  as 
soon  as  possible. 

It  had  come  on  to  rain  and  beneath  the  street  lights 
the  asphalt  shone  like  a  river.  The  storm  had  driven  most 
people  indoors,  but  as  the  Westerner  drew  near  the  drug- 
store Clay  saw  with  relief  a  taxicab  draw  up  outside.  Its 
driver,  crouched  in  his  seat  behind  the  waterproof  apron 
as  far  back  as  possible  from  the  rain,  promptly  accepted 
Lindsay  as  a  fare. 

"Back  in  a  minute,"  Clay  told  him,  and  passed  intc 
the  drug-store. 

The  abduction  was  still  being  discussed.  There  was  a 
disagreement  as  to  whether  the  girl  had  stepped  volun- 
tarily into  the  car  or  been  lifted  in  by  the  man  outside. 
This  struck  the  cattleman  as  unimportant.  He  pushed 
home  questions  as  to  identification.  One  of  the  men  in 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  159 

the  drug-store  had  caught  a  flash  of  the  car  number.  He 
was  sure  the  first  four  figures  were  3967.  The  fifth  he  did 
not  remember.  The  car  was  dark  blue  and  it  looked  like 
a  taxi.  This  information  Clay  got  the  owner  of  the  car  to 
forward  to  the  police. 

He  did  not  wait  to  give  it  personally,  but  joined  John- 
nie in  the  cab.  The  address  he  gave  to  the  driver  with  the 
waterproof  hat  pulled  down  over  his  head  was  that  of  a 
certain  place  of  amusement  known  as  Heath's  Palace  of 
Wonders.  A  young  woman  he  wanted  to  consult  was 
wont  to  sit  behind  a  window  there  at  the  receipt  of  cus- 
toms. 

"It's  worth  a  fiver  extra  if  you  make  good  time," 
Lindsay  told  the  driver. 

"You're  on,  boss,"  answered  the  man  gruffly. 

Johnnie,  in  a  fever  of  anxiety,  had  trotted  along  be- 
side his  chief  to  the  drug-store  in  silence.  Now,  as  they 
rushed  across  the  city,  he  put  a  timid  question  with  a 
touch  of  bluff  bravado  he  did  not  feel. 

"We'll  get  her  back  sure,  don't  you  reckon?" 

"We'll  do  our  best.  Don't  you  worry.  That  won't  buy 
us  anything." 

"No  —  no,  I  ain't  a-worryin'  none,  but  —  Clay,  I'd 
hate  a  heap  for  any  harm  to  come  to  that  liT  girl."  His 
voice  quavered. 

"Sho!  We're  right  on  their  heels,  Johnnie.  So  are  the 
cops.  We'll  make  a  gather  and  get  Kitty  back  all  right." 

Miss  Annie  Millikan's  pert  smile  beamed  through  the 
window  at  Clay  when  he  stepped  up. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Flat- Worker,"  she  sang  out.  "How 
many?" 


160  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"I'm  not  going  in  to  see  the  show  to-night.  I  want  to 
talk  with  you  if  you  can  get  some  one  to  take  yore  place 
here." 

"Say,  whatta  you  think  I  am  —  one  o'  these  here 
Fift'  Avenoo  society  dames?  I'm  earnin'  my  hot  dogs 
and  coffee  right  at  this  window.  .  .  .  Did  you  say  two, 
lady?"  She  shoved  two  tickets  through  the  window  in 
exchange  for  dimes. 

Clay  explained  that  his  business  was  serious.  "I've 
got  to  see  you  alone  —  now,"  he  added. 

"If  you  gotta  you  gotta."  The  girl  called  an  usher, 
who  found  a  second  usher  to  take  her  place. 

Annie  walked  down  the  street  a  few  steps  beside  Clay. 
The  little  puncher  followed  them  dejectedly.  His  confi- 
dence had  gone  down  to  chill  zero. 

"  What 's  the  big  idea  in  callin'  me  from  me  job  in  the 
rush  hours?"  asked  Miss  Millikan.  "And  who's  this 
gumshoe  guy  from  the  bush  league  tailin'  us?  Breeze  on 
and  wise  Annie  if  this  here  business  is  so  important." 

Clay  told  his  story. 

"Some  of  Jerry's  strong-arm  work,"  she  commented. 

"Must  be.  Can  you  help  me?" 

Annie  looked  straight  at  him,  a  humorous  little  quirk 
to  her  mouth.  "Say,  what 're  you  askin'  me  to  do  — 
t'row  down  my  steady?" 

Which  remark  carries  us  back  a  few  days  to  one  sunny 
afternoon  after  Clay's  midnight  call  when  he  had 
dropped  round  to  see  Miss  Annie.  They  had  walked  over 
to  Gramercy  Park  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  as  they 
talked.  Most  men  and  all  women  trusted  Clay.  He  had 
in  him  some  quality  of  unspoken  sympathy  that  drew 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  161 

confidences.  Before  she  knew  it  Annie  found  herself 
telling  him  the  story  of  her  life. 

Her  father  had  been  a  riveter  in  a  shipyard  and  had 
been  killed  while  she  was  a  baby.  Later  her  mother  had 
married  unhappily  a  man  who  followed  the  night  paths 
of  the  criminal  underworld.  Afteiward  he  had  done  time 
at  Sing  Sing.  Through  him  Annie  had  been  brought  for 
years  into  contact  with  the  miserable  types  that  make 
an  illicit  living  by  preying  upon  the  unsuspecting  in  big 
cities.  Always  in  the  little  Irish  girl  there  had  been  a 
yearning  for  things  clean  and  decent,  but  it  is  almost 
impossible  for  the  poor  in  a  great  city  to  escape  from  the 
environment  that  presses  upon  them. 

She  was  pretty,  and  inevitably  she  had  lovers.  One  of 
these  was  "Slim"  Jim  Collins,  a  confidential  follower  of 
Jerry  Durand.  He  was  a  crook,  and  she  knew  it.  But  some 
quality  in  him  —  his  good  looks,  perhaps,  or  his  game- 
ness  —  fascinated  her  in  spite  of  herself.  She  avoided 
him,  even  while  she  found  herself  pleased  to  go  to  Coney 
with  an  escort  so  well  dressed  and  so  glibly  confident. 
Another  of  her  admirers  was  a  policeman,  Tim  Muldoon 
by  name,  the  same  one  that  had  rescued  Clay  from  the 
savagery  of  Durand  outside  the  Sea  Siren.  Tim  she 
liked.  But  for  all  his  Irish  ardor  he  was  wary.  He  had 
never  asked  her  to  marry  him.  She  thought  she  knew  the 
reason.  He  did  not  want  for  a  wife  a  woman  who  had 
been  "Slim"  Jim's  girl.  And  Annie  —  because  she  was 
Irish  too  and  perverse  —  held  her  head  high  and  went 
with  Collins  openly  before  the  eyes  of  the  pained  and 
jealous  patrolman. 

Clay  had  come  to  Annie  Millikan  now  because  ol 


162  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

what  she  had  told  him  about  "Slim"  Jim.  This  man  was 
one  of  Durand's  stand-bys.  If  there  was  any  under- 
ground work  to  be  done  it  was  an  odds-on  chance  that 
he  would  be  in  charge  of  it. 

"I'm  askin'  you  to  stand  by  a  poor  girl  that's  in 
trouble,"  he  said  in  answer  to  her  question. 

"You've  soitainly  got  a  nerve  with  you.  I'll  say  you 
have.  You  want  me  to  throw  the  hooks  into  Jim  for 
a  goil  I  never  set  me  peepers  on.  I  wisht  I  had  your 
crust." 

"You  would  n't  let  Durand  spoil  her  life  if  you  could 
stop  it." 

"Would  n't  I?  Hmp!  Soft-soap  stuff.  Well,  what's  my 
cue?  Where  do  I  come  in  on  this  rescue-the-be-eutiful 
heroine  act?" 

"When  did  you  see  'Slim'  Jim  last?" 

"I  might  'a'  seen  him  this  afternoon  an'  I  might  not," 
she  said  cautiously,  looking  at  him  from  under  a  broad 
hat-brim. 

"When?" 

"I  didn't  see  him  after  I  got  behind  that  'How 
Many?'  sign.  If  I  seen  him  must  'a'  been  before  two." 

"Did  he  give  you  any  hint  of  what  was  in  the  air?" 

"Say,  what's  the  lay-out?  Are  you  framin'  Jim  for  up 
the  river?  " 

"I'm  tryin'  to  save  Kitty." 

"Because  she's  your  goil.  Where  do  I  come  in  at? 
What's  there  in  it  for  me  to  go  rappin'  me  friend?"  de- 
manded Annie  sharply. 

"She's  not  my  girl,"  explained  Clay.  Then,  with  that 
sure  instinct  that  sometimes  guided  him,  he  added,  "The 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  16S 

young  lady  I  —  I  'in  in  love  with  has  just  become  en- 
gaged to  another  man." 

Miss  Millikan  looked  at  him,  frankly  incredulous. 
"For  the  love  o'  Mike,  where 's  her  eyes?  Don't  she 
know  a  real  man  when  she  sees  one?  I'll  say  she  don't." 

"I'm  standin'  by  Kitty  because  she's  shy  of  friends. 
Any  man  would  do  that,  would  n't  he?  I  came  to  you  for 
help  because  —  oh,  because  I  know  you're  white  clear 
through." 

A  flush  beat  into  Annie's  cheeks.  She  went  off  swiftly 
at  a  tangent.  "Would  n't  it  give  a  fellow  a  jar?  This  guy 
Jim  Collins  slips  it  to  me  confidential  that  he's  off  the 
crooked  stuff.  Nothin'  doin'  a-tall  in  gorilla  work.  He 
kids  me  that  he 's  quit  goin'  out  on  the  spud  and  porch- 
climbin'  don't  look  good  to  him  no  more.  A  four-room 
flat,  a  little  wifie,  an'  the  straight  road  for  'Slim'  Jim.  I 
fall  for  it,  though  I  'd  orta  be  hep  to  men.  An'  he  dates 
me  up  to-night  for  the  chauffeurs'  ball." 

"But  you  did  n't  go?" 

"No;  he  sidesteps  it  this  aft  with  a  fairy  tale  about 
drivin'  a  rich  old  dame  out  to  Yonkers.  All  the  time  he 
was  figurin'  on  pinchin'  this  goil  for  Jerry.  He 's  a  rotten 
crook." 

"Why  don't  you  break  with  him,  Annie?  You're  too 
good  for  that  sort  of  thing.  He'll  spoil  your  life  if  you 
don't." 

"Listens  fine,"  the  girl  retorted  bitterly.  "I  take  Jim 
like  some  folks  do  booze  or  dope.  He  's  a  habit." 

"Tim's  worth  a  dozen  of  him." 

"Sure  he  is,  but  Tim's  got  a  notion  I'm  not  on  the 
level.  I  dunno  as  he  needs  to  pull  that  stuff  on  me.  I  'm 


164  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-DP 

not  strong  for  a  harness  bull  anyhow.**  She  laughed,  a 
little  off  the  key. 

"What  color  is  'Slim*  Jim*s  car?" 

"A  dirty  blue.  Why?" 

"That  was  the  car." 

Annie  lifted  her  hands  in  a  little  gesture  of  despair* 
"I*m  dead  sick  of  this  game.  What's  there  in  it?  I  live 
straight  and  eat  in  a  beanery.  No  lobster  palaces  in 
mine.  Look  at  me  cheap  duds.  And  Tim  gives  me  the 
over  like  I  was  a  street  cat.  What  sort  of  a  chance  did  I 
ever  have,  with  toughs  and  gunmen  for  me  friends?" 

"  You  've  got  yore  chance  now,  Annie.  Tim  will  hop  off 
that  fence  he's  on  and  light  a-runnin'  straight  for  you  if 
he  thinks  you've  ditched  'Slim*  Jim." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly.  "No,  I'll  not  t'row  Jim 
down.  I'm  through  with  him.  He  lied  to  me  right  while 
he  knew  this  was  all  framed  up.  But  I  would  n't  snitch 
on  him,  even  if  he'd  told  me  anything.  And  he  did  n't 
peep  about  what  he  was  up  to." 

"Forget  Jim  while  you're  thinkin'  about  this.  You 
don't  owe  Jerry  Durand  anything,  anyhow.  Where 
would  he  have  Kitty  taken?  You  can  give  a  guess." 

She  had  made  her  decision  before  she  spoke.  "Gimme 
paper  and  a  pencil." 

On  Clay's  notebook  she  scrawled  hurriedly  an  address. 

"Jim'd  croak  me  if  he  knew  I'd  given  this,"  she  said, 
looking  straight  at  the  cattleman. 

"He'll  never  know  —  and  I'll  never  forget  it,  Annie." 

Clay  left  her  and  turned  to  the  driver.  From  the  slip  of 
paper  in  his  hand  he  read  aloud  an  address.  "Another 
five  if  you  break  the  speed  limit,"  he  said. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  165 

As  Clay  slammed  the  door  shut  and  the  car  moved 
forward  he  had  an  impression  of  something  gone  wrong, 
of  a  cog  in  his  plans  slipped  somewhere.  For  Annie, 
standing  in  the  rain  under  a  sputtering  misty  street 
light,  showed  a  face  stricken  with  fear. 

Her  dilated  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  driver  of  the  taxi- 
cab,. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
AT  THE  HEAD  OF  THE  STAIRS 

THE  cab  whirled  round  the  corner  and  speeded  down  a 
side  street  that  stretched  as  far  as  they  could  see  silent 
and  deserted  in  the  storm. 

The  rain,  falling  faster  now,  beat  gustily  in  a  slant 
against  the  left  window  of  the  cab.  It  was  pouring  in 
rivulets  along  the  gutter  beside  the  curb.  Some  sixth 
sense  of  safety  —  one  that  comes  to  many  men  who  live 
in  the  outdoors  on  the  untamed  frontier  —  warned  Clay 
that  all  was  not  well.  He  had  felt  that  bell  of  instinct 
ring  in  him  once  at  Juarez  when  he  had  taken  a  place  at 
a  table  to  play  poker  with  a  bad-man  who  had  a  grudge 
at  him.  Again  it  had  sounded  when  he  was  about  to  sit 
down  on  a  rock  close  to  a  crevice  where  a  rattler  lay 
coiled. 

The  machine  had  swung  to  the  right  and  was  facing 
from  the  wind  instead  of  into  it.  Clay  was  not  very  well 
acquainted  with  New  York,  but  he  did  know  this  was 
not  the  direction  in  which  he  wanted  to  go. 

He  beat  with  his  knuckles  on  the  front  of  the  cab  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  driver.  In  the  swishing  rain, 
and  close  to  the  throb  of  the  engine,  the  chauffeur  either 
did  not  or  would  not  hear. 

Lindsay  opened  the  door  and  swung  out  on  the  run- 
ning-board. "We're  goin'  wrong.  Stop  the  car!**  he 
ordered. 

The  man  at  the  wheel  did  not  turn.  He  speeded  up. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  167 

His  fare  wasted  no  time  in  remonstrances.  A  moment, 
and  the  chauffeur  threw  on  the  brake  sharply.  His  rea- 
son was  a  good  one.  The  blue  nose  of  a  revolver  was 
jammed  hard  against  his  ribs.  He  had  looked  round  once 
to  find  out  what  it  was  prodding  him.  That  was  enough 
to  convince  him  he  had  better  stop. 

Under  the  brake  the  back  wheels  skidded  and  brought 
up  against  the  curb.  Clay,  hanging  on  by  one  hand,  was 
flung  hard  to  the  sidewalk.  The  cab  teetered,  regained  its 
equilibrium,  gathered  impetus  with  a  snort,  and  leaped 
forward  again. 

As  the  cattleman  clambered  to  his  feet  he  caught  one 
full  view  of  the  chauffeur's  triumphant,  vindictive  face. 
He  had  seen  it  before,  at  a  reception  especially  arranged 
for  him  by  Jerry  Durand  one  memorable  night.  It  be- 
longed to  the  more  talkative  of  the  two  gunmen  he  had 
surprised  at  the  pretended  poker  game.  He  knew,  too, 
without  being  told  that  this  man  and  "Slim"  Jim  Col- 
lins were  one  and  the  same.  The  memory  of  Annie's 
stricken  face  carried  this  conviction  home  to  him. 

The  Arizonan  picked  up  his  revolver  in  time  to  see  the 
car  sweep  around  the  next  corner  and  laughed  ruefully 
at  his  own  discomfiture.  He  pushed  a  hand  through  the 
crisp,  reddish  waves  of  his  hair. 

"I  don't  reckon  I'll  ride  in  that  taxi  any  farther. 
Johnnie  will  have  to  settle  the  bill.  Hope  he  plays  his 
hand  better  than  I  did,"  he  said  aloud. 

The  rain  pelted  down  as  he  moved  toward  the  brighter 
lighted  street  that  intersected  the  one  where  he  had  been 
dropped.  The  lights  of  a  saloon  caught  his  eye  at  the 
corner.  He  went  in,  got  police  headquarters  on  the  wire, 


168  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

and  learned  that  a  car  answering  the  description  of  the 
one  used  by  his  abductor  had  been  headed  into  Central 
Park  by  officers  and  that  the  downtown  exits  were  being 
watched. 

He  drew  what  comfort  he  could  from  that  fact. 

Presently  he  picked  up  another  taxi.  He  hesitated 
whether  to  go  to  the  address  Annie  had  given  him  or  to 
join  the  chase  uptown.  Reluctantly,  he  decided  to  visit 
the  house.  His  personal  inclination  was  for  the  hunt 
rather  than  for  inactive  waiting,  but  he  sacrificed  any 
immediate  chance  of  adventure  for  the  sake  of  covering 
the  possible  rendezvous  of  the  gang. 

Clay  paid  his  driver  and  looked  at  the  house  numbers 
as  he  moved  up  the  street  he  wanted.  He  was  in  that  part 
of  the  city  from  which  business  years  ago  marched  up- 
town. Sometime  in  decades  past  people  of  means  had 
lived  behind  these  brownstone  fronts.  Many  of  the  resi- 
dences were  used  to  keep  lodgers  in.  Others  were  em- 
ployed for  less  reputable  purposes. 

His  overcoat  buttoned  to  his  neck,  Clay  walked  with- 
out hesitation  up  the  steps  of  the  one  numbered  243.  He 
rang  the  bell  and  waited,  his  right  hand  on  the  pocket  of 
his  overcoat. 

The  door  opened  cautiously  a  few  inches  and  a  pair  of 
dose-set  eyes  in  a  wrinkled  face  gimleted  Clay. 

"Whadyawant?" 

"The  old  man  sent  me  with  a  message,"  answered  the 
^rizonan  promptly. 

"Spill  it." 

"Are  you  alone?" 

"You  know  it»*r 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  168 

"Got  everything  ready  for  the  girl?" 

"Say,  who  the  hell  are  youse?" 

"One  of  Slim's  friends.  Listen,  we  got  the  kid  — 
picked  her  up  at  a  drug-store." 

"I  don'  know  watcher  fairy  tale's  about.  If  you 
gotta  message  come  through  with  it." 

Clay  put  his  foot  against  the  door  to  prevent  it  from 
being  closed  and  drew  his  hand  from  the  overcoat  pocket. 
In  the  hand  nestled  a  blue-nosed  persuader. 

Unless  the  eyes  peering  into  the  night  were  bad  ba- 
rometers of  their  owner's  inner  state,  he  was  in  a  panic 
of  fear. 

"Love  o'  Gawd,  d-don't  shoot!"  he  chattered.  "I 
ain't  nobody  but  the  caretaker." 

He  backed  slowly  away,  followed  by  Lindsay.  The 
barrel  of  the  thirty-eight  held  his  eyes  fascinated.  By 
the  light  of  his  flash  Clay  discovered  the  man  to  be  a 
chalk-faced  little  inconsequent. 

"Say,  don't  point  that  at  me,"  the  old  fellow  implored. 

"Are  you  alone?" 

"I  told  you  I  was." 

"  Is  Jerry  comin'  himself  with  the  others?" 

"They  don't  none  of  them  tell  me  nothin'.  I'm  no- 
body. I'm  only  Joey." 

"Unload  what  you  know.  Quick.  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

The  man  began  a  rambling,  whining  tale. 

The  Arizonan  interrupted  with  questions,  crisp  and 
incisive.  He  learned  that  a  room  had  been  prepared  on 
the  second  floor  for  a  woman.  Slim  had  made  the  ar- 
rangements. Joe  had  heard  Durand's  name  mentioned, 
but  knew  nothing  of  the  plans. 


170  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"I'll  look  the  house  over.  Move  along  in  front  of  me 
and  don't  make  any  mistakes.  This  six-gun  is  liable  to 
permeate  yore  anatomy  with  lead." 

The  cattleman  examined  the  first  floor  with  an  es- 
pecial view  to  the  exits.  He  might  have  to  leave  in  a 
hurry.  If  so,  he  wanted  to  know  where  he  was  going.  The 
plan  of  the  second  story  was  another  point  he  featured 
as  he  passed  swiftly  from  room  to  room.  From  the 
laundry  in  the  basement  he  had  brought  up  a  coil  of 
clothes-line.  With  this  he  tied  Joe  hand  and  foot.  After 
gagging  him,  he  left  the  man  locked  in  a  small  rear  room 
and  took  the  key  with  him. 

Clay  knew  that  he  was  in  a  precarious  situation.  If 
Durand  returned  with  Kitty  and  captured  him  here  he 
was  lost.  The  man  would  make  no  more  mistakes.  Cer- 
tainly he  would  leave  no  evidence  against  him  except 
that  of  his  own  tools.  The  intruder  would  probably  not 
be  killed  openly.  He  would  either  simply  disappear  or  he 
would  be  murdered  with  witnesses  framed  to  show  self- 
defense.  The  cattleman  was  as  much  outside  the  law  as 
the  criminals  were.  He  had  no  legal  business  in  this 
house.  But  one  thing  was  fixed  in  his  mind.  He  would  be 
no  inactive  victim.  If  they  got  him  at  all  it  would  be  only 
after  a  fighting  finish. 

To  Clay,  standing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  came  a 
sound  that  stiffened  him  to  a  tense  wariness.  A  key  was 
being  turned  in  the  lock  of  the  street  door  below.  He 
moved  back  into  the  deeper  shadows  as  the  door  swung 
open. 

Two  men  entered.  One  of  them  cursed  softly  as  he 
stumbled  against  a  chair  in  the  dark  hall. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  171 

"Where's  that  rat  Joe?"  he  demanded  in  a  subdued 
voice. 

Then  came  a  click  of  the  lock.  The  sound  of  the  street 
rain  ceased.  Clay  knew  that  the  door  had  been  closed 
and  that  he  was  shut  in  with  two  desperate  criminals. 

What  have  they  done  with  Kitty?  Why  was  she  not 
with  them?  He  asked  himself  that  question  even  as  he 
slipped  back  into  a  room  that  opened  to  the  left. 

He  groped  his  way  through  the  darkness,  for  he 
dared  not  flash  his  light  to  guide  him.  His  fingers  found 
the  edge  of  a  desk.  Round  that  he  circled  toward  a  closet 
he  remembered  having  noted.  Already  the  men  were 
tramping  up  the  stairs.  They  were,  he  could  tell,  in  a  vile 
humor.  From  this  he  later  augured  hopefully  that  their 
plans  had  not  worked  out  srr.oothly,  but  just  now  more 
imperative  business  called  l.im. 

His  arm  brushed  the  closet  door.  Next  moment  he  was 
inside  and  had  closed  it  softly  behind  him. 

And  none  too  soon.  For  into  the  room  came  the  gun- 
men almost  on  his  heels. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
TWO  MEN  IN  A  LOCKED  ROOM 

"  JERRY 'LL  raise  hell,"  a  heavy  voice  was  saying  as  they 
entered  the  room.  "And  that  ain't  all.  We'll  lan/i  in  stir 
if  we  don't  look  out.  We  just  ducked  a  bad  fall.  The  bulls 
pretty  near  had  us  that  time  we  poked  our  nose  out 
from  the  Park  at  Seventy-Second  Street." 

Some  one  pressed  a  button  and  the  room  leaped  to 
light.  Through  the  open  crack  of  the  closed  door  Clay 
recognized  Gorilla  Dave.  The  second  of  the  gunmen  was 
out  of  range  of  his  vision. 

From  the  sound  of  creaking  furniture  Clay  judged 
that  the  unseen  man  had  sat  down  heavily.  "It  was  that 
blowout  queered  us.  And  say  —  how  came  the  bulls  so 
hot  on  our  trail?  Who  rapped  to  'em?" 

"Must  'a'  been  that  boob  wit'  the  goil.  He  got  busy 
quick.  Well,  Jerry  won't  have  to  salve  the  cops  this  time. 
We  made  our  getaway  all  right,"  said  Dave. 

"Say,  where 's  Joey?" 

"Pulled  a  sneak  likely.  Wha's  it  matter?  Listen! 
What's  that?" 

Some  one  was  coming  up  the  stairs. 

The  men  in  the  room  moved  cautiously  to  the  door. 
The  hall  light  was  switched  on. 

''  'Lo,  Jerry,"  Gorilla  Dave  called  softly. 

He  closed  the  room  door  and  the  sound  of  the  voices 
was  shut  off  instantly. 

The  uninvited  guest  dared  not  step  out  of  the  closet 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  173 

to  listen,  for  at  any  instant  the  men  might  reenter.  He 
crouched  in  his  hiding-place,  the  thirty-eight  in  his  hand. 

The  minutes  dragged  interminably.  More  than  once 
Clay  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  steal  out  to  learn  what 
the  men  were  doing.  But  his  judgment  told  him  he  must 
avoid  a  brush  with  so  many  if  possible. 

The  door  opened  again. 

"Now  beat  it  and  do  as  I  say  if  you  know  what's  good 
for  you,"  a  bullying  voice  was  ordering. 

The  owner  of  the  voice  came  in  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  him.  He  sat  down  at  the  desk,  his  back  to 
the  closet.  Through  the  chink  Clay  saw  that  the  man  was 
Jerry  Durand. 

From  his  vest  pocket  he  took  a  fat  black  cigar,  struck 
a  match  and  lit  it.  He  slumped  down  in  the  swivel  chair. 
It  took  no  seer  to  divine  that  his  mind  was  busy  work- 
ing out  a  problem. 

Clay  stepped  softly  from  his  place  of  refuge,  but  not  so 
noiselessly  that  the  gangman  did  not  detect  his  presence. 
Jerry  swung  round  in  the  chair  and  leaped  up  with  cat- 
like activity.  He  stood  without  moving,  poised  on  the 
balls  of  his  feet,  his  deep-set  eyes  narrowed  to  shining 
slits.  It  was  in  his  thought  to  hurl  himself  headlong  on 
the  man  holding  steadily  the  menacing  revolver. 

"Don't  you!  I've  got  the  dead  wood  on  you,"  said  the 
Arizonan,  a  trenchant  saltness  in  his  speech.  "I'll  shoot 
you  down  sure  as  hell's  hot." 

The  eyes  of  the  men  clashed,  measuring  each  the 
other's  strength  of  will.  They  were  warily  conscious  even 
of  the  batting  of  an  eyelid.  Durand's  face  wore  an  ugly 
look  of  impotent  malice,  but  his  throat  was  dry  as  a  lime 


174  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

kiln.  He  could  not  estimate  the  danger  that  confronted 
him  nor  what  lay  back  of  the  man's  presence. 

"What  you  doin'  here?"  he  demanded. 

"Makin*  my  party  call,"  retorted  Clay  easily. 

Jerry  cursed  him  with  a  low,  savage  stream  of  pro- 
fanity. The  gangman  enraged  was  not  a  sight  pleasing 
to  see. 

"I  reckon  heaven,  hell,  and  high  water  could  n't  keep 
you  from  cussin*  now.  Relieve  yore  mind  proper,  Mr. 
Durand.  Then  we'll  talk  business,"  murmured  Clay  in 
the  low,  easy  drawl  that  never  suggested  weakness. 

The  ex-prize-fighter's  flow  of  language  dried  up.  He 
fell  silent  and  stood  swallowing  his  furious  rage.  It  had 
come  home  to  him  that  this  narrow-flanked  young  fellow 
with  the  close-gripped  jaw  and  the  cool,  steady  eyes  was 
entirely  unmoved  by  his  threats. 

"Quite  through  effervescing?"  asked  Clay  contempt- 
uously. 

The  gang  leader  made  no  answer.  He  chose  to  nurse  his 
venom  silently. 

"Where's  Kitty  Mason?" 

Still  no  answer. 

"I  asked  you  what  you've  done  with  Kitty  Mason?" 

"What's  that  to  you?" 

"I'm  close-herdin'  that  HT  girl  and  I'll  not  have  yore 
dirty  hands  touch  her.  Where  is  she?" 

"That's  my  business." 

"By  God,  you'll  tell,  or  I'll  tear  it  out  of  you!" 

Clay  backed  to  the  door,  found  the  key,  transferred  it 
to  the  inner  side  of  the  lock,  turned  it,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  175 

The  cornered  gangman  took  a  chance.  He  ducked 
for  the  shelter  of  the  desk,  tore  open  a  drawer,  and 
snatched  out  an  automatic. 

Simultaneously  the  cowpuncher  pressed  the  button 
beside  the  door  and  plunged  the  room  in  darkness.  He 
side-stepped  swiftly  and  without  noise. 

A  flash  of  lightning  split  the  blackness. 

Clay  dropped  to  his  knees  and  crawled  away.  Another 
bolt,  with  its  accompanying  roar,  flamed  out. 

Still  the  Westerner  did  not  fire  in  answer,  though  he 
knew  just  where  the  target  for  his  bullet  was.  A  plan  had 
come  to  him.  In  the  blackness  of  that  room  one  might 
empty  his  revolver  and  not  score  a  hit.  To  wait  was 
to  take  a  chance  of  being  potted,  but  he  did  not  want 
the  death  of  even  such  a  ruffian  as  Durand  on  his 
soul. 

The  crash  of  the  automatic  and  the  rattle  of  glass 
filled  the  room.  Jerry,  blazing  away  at  some  fancied 
sound,  had  shattered  the  window. 

Followed  a  long  silence.  Durand  had  changed  his  tac- 
tics and  was  resolved  to  wait  until  his  enemy  grew  rest- 
less  and  betrayed  himself. 

The  delay  became  a  test  of  moral  stamina.  Each  man 
knew  that  death  was  in  that  room  lying  in  wait  for  him. 
The  touch  of  a  finger  might  send  it  flying  across  the 
floor.  Upon  the  mantel  a  clock  ticked  maddeningly,  the 
only  sound  to  be  heard. 

The  contest  was  not  one  of  grit,  but  of  that  unflawed 
nerve  which  is  so  much  the  result  of  perfect  physical 
fitness.  Clay's  years  of  clean  life  on  the  desert  counted 
heavily  now.  He  was  master  of  himself,  though  his 


176  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

mouth  was  dry  as  a  whisper  and  there  were  goose  quills 
on  his  flesh. 

But  Durand,  used  to  the  fetid  atmosphere  of  bar- 
rooms and  to  the  soft  living  of  the  great  city,  found  his 
nerve  beginning  to  crack  under  the  strain.  Cold  drops 
stood  out  on  his  forehead  and  his  hands  shook  from  ex- 
citement and  anxiety.  What  kind  of  a  man  was  his  enemy 
to  lie  there  in  the  black  silence  and  not  once  give  a  sign 
of  where  he  was,  in  spite  of  crashing  bullets?  There  was 
something  in  it  hardly  human.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  Jerry  feared  he  was  up  against  a  better  man. 

Was  it  possible  that  he  could  have  killed  the  fellow  at 
the  first  shot?  The  comfort  of  this  thought  whispered 
hope  in  the  ear  of  the  ex-prize-fighter. 

A  chair  crashed  wildly.  Durand  fired  again  and  yet 
again,  his  nerves  giving  way  to  a  panic  that  carried  him 
to  swift  action.  He  could  not  have  stood  another  moment 
without  screaming. 

There  came  the  faint  sound  of  a  hand  groping  on  the 
wall  and  immediately  after  a  flood  of  light  filled  the 
room. 

Clay  stood  by  the  door.  His  revolver  covered  the 
crouching  gang  leader.  His  eyes  were  hard  and  piti- 
less. 

"Try  another  shot,"  he  advised  ironically. 

Jerry  did.  A  harmless  click  was  all  the  result  he  got. 
He  knew  now  that  the  cowman  had  tempted  him  to 
waste  his  last  shots  at  a  bit  of  furniture  flung  across  the 
room. 

"You'll  tell  me  what  you  did  with  Kitty  Mason," 
said  Clay  in  his  low,  persuasive  voice,  just  as  though 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  177 

there  had  been  no  intermission  of  flying  bullets  since  he 
had  mentioned  the  girl  before. 

"You  can't  kill  me,  when  I  have  n't  a  loaded  gun," 
Durand  answered  between  dry  lips. 

The  other  man  nodded  an  admission  of  the  point. 
"That's  an  advantage  you've  got  of  me.  You  could  kill 
me  if  I  did  n't  have  a  gun,  because  you  're  a  yellow  wclf . 
But  I  can't  kill  you.  That's  right.  But  I  can  beat  hell 
out  of  you,  and  I'm  sure  goin'  to  do  it." 

"Talk's  cheap,  when  you've  got  a  loaded  six-gun  in 
your  fist,"  jeered  Jerry. 

With  a  flirt  of  his  hand  Clay  tossed  the  revolver  to  the 
top  of  a  book-case,  out  of  easy  reach  of  a  man  standing 
on  the  floor.  He  ripped  open  the  buttons  of  his  overcoat 
and  slipped  out  of  it,  then  moved  forward  with  elastic 
step. 

"It's  you  or  me  now,  Jerry  Durand." 

The  prize-fighter  gave  a  snort  of  derisive  triumph. 
"You  damn  fool!  I'll  eat  you  alive." 

"Mebbeso.  I  reckon  my  system  can  assimilate  any 
whalin'  you  're  liable  to  hand  me.  Go  to  it." 

Durand  had  the  heavy  shoulders  and  swelling  muscles 
that  come  from  years  of  training  for  the  ring.  Like  most 
pugilists  out  of  active  service  he  had  taken  on  flesh.  But 
the  extra  weight  was  not  fat,  for  Jerry  kept  always  in 
good  condition.  He  held  his  leadership  partly  at  least 
because  of  his  physical  prowess.  No  tough  in  New  York 
would  willingly  have  met  him  in  rough-and-tumble 
fight. 

The  younger  man  was  more  slightly  built.  He  was  a 
Hermes  rather  than  a  Hercules.  His  muscles  flowed. 


178  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-tJP 

They  did  not  bulge.  But  when  he  moved  it  was  with  the 
litheness  of  a  panther.  The  long  lines  of  shoulder  and 
loin  had  the  flow  of  tigerish  grace.  The  clear  eyes  in  the 
brown  face  told  of  a  soul  indomitable  in  a  perfectly 
synchronized  body. 

Durand  lashed  out  with  a  swinging  left,  all  the  weight 
of  his  body  behind  the  blow.  Clay  stepped  back,  shot  a 
hard  straight  right  to  the  cheek,  and  ducked  the  coun- 
ter. Jerry  rushed  him,  flailing  at  his  foe  blow  on  blow, 
intending  to  wear  him  out  by  sheer  hard  hammering.  He 
butted  with  head  and  knee,  used  every  foul  trick  he 
had  learned  in  his  rotten  trade  of  prize-fighting.  Active 
as  a  wild  cat,  the  Arizonan  side-stepped,  scored  a  left 
on  the  eye,  ducked  again,  and  fought  back  the  furious 
attack. 

The  gangman  came  out  of  the  rally  winded,  perplexed, 
and  disturbed.  His  cheek  was  bleeding,  one  eye  was 
in  distress,  and  he  had  hardly  touched  his  agile  oppo- 
nent. 

He  rushed  again.  Nothing  but  his  temper,  the  lack  of 
self-control  that  made  him  see  red  and  had  once  put  him 
at  the  mercy  of  a  first-class  ring  general  with  stamina 
and  a  punch,  had  kept  Jerry  out  of  a  world  champion- 
ship. He  had  everything  else  needed,  but  he  was  the 
victim  of  his  own  passion.  It  betrayed  him  now.  His 
fighting  was  that  of  a  wild  cave  man,  blind,  furious, 
damaging.  He  threw  away  his  science  and  his  skill  in 
order  to  destroy  the  man  he  hated.  He  rained  blows  on 
him  —  fought  him  with  head  and  knee  and  fist,  was  on 
top  of  him  every  moment,  controlled  by  one  dominating 
purpose  to  make  that  dancing  figure  take  the  dust. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  179 

How  Clay  weathered  the  storm  he  did  not  know.  Some 
blows  he  blocked,  others  he  side-stepped,  a  few  he  took 
on  face  and  body.  He  was  cool,  quite  master  of  himself. 
Before  the  fight  had  gone  three  minutes  he  knew  that, 
barring  a  chance  blow,  some  foul  play,  or  a  bit  of  bad 
luck,  he  would  win.  He  was  covering  up,  letting  the 
pugilist  wear  himself  out,  and  taking  only  the  punish- 
ment he  must.  But  he  was  getting  home  some  heavy 
body  blows  that  were  playing  the  mischief  with  Jerry's 
wind. 

The  New  Yorker,  puffing  like  a  sea  lion,  came  out  of  a 
rally  winded  and  spent.  Instantly  Clay  took  the  offen- 
sive. He  was  a  trained  boxer  as  well  as  a  fighter,  and  he 
had  been  taught  how  to  make  every  ounce  of  his  weight 
count.  Ripping  in  a  body  blow  as  a  feint,  he  brought 
down  Durand's  guard.  A  straight  left  crashed  home 
between  the  eyes  and  a  heavy  solar  plexus  shook  the 
man  to  the  heels. 

Durand  tried  to  close  with  him.  An  uppercut  jolted 
him  back.  He  plunged  forward  again.  They  grappled, 
knocking  over  chairs  as  they  threshed  across  the  room. 
When  they  went  down  Clay  was  underneath,  but  as  they 
struck  the  floor  he  whirled  and  landed  on  top. 

The  man  below  fought  furiously  to  regain  his  feet. 
Clay's  arm  worked  like  a  piston  rod  with  short-arm 
jolts  against  the  battered  face. 

A  wild  heave  unseated  the  Arizonan.  They  clinchi-d, 
rolled  over  and  bumped  against  the  wall,  Clay  again  on 
top.  For  a  moment  Durand  got  a  thumb  in  his  foe's  eye 
and  tried  to  gouge  it  out.  Clay's  fingers  found  the  throat 
of  the  gang  leader  and  tightened.  Jerry  struggled  to  free 


180  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

himself,  catching  at  the  sinewy  wrist  with  both  hands. 
He  could  not  break  the  iron  grip.  Gasping  for  breath,  he 
suddenly  collapsed. 

Clay  got  to  his  feet  and  waited  for  Durand  to  rise.  His 
enemy  rolled  over  and  groaned. 

"Had  enough?"  demanded  the  Westerner. 

No  answer  came,  except  the  heavy,  irregular  breath- 
ing of  the  man  on  the  floor  who  was  clawing  for  air  in  his 
lungs. 

'''I'll  ask  you  once  more  where  Kitty  Mason  is.  And 
you'll  tell  me  unless  you  want  me  to  begin  on  you  all 
over  again," 

The  beaten  pugilist  sat  up,  leaning  against  the  wall. 
He  spoke  with  a  kind  of  heavy  despair,  as  though  the 
words  were  forced  out  of  him.  He  felt  ashamed  and  dis- 
graced by  his  defeat.  Life  for  him  had  lost  its  savor,  for 
he  had  met  his  master. 

"She  —  got  away." 

"How?" 

"They  turned  her  loose,  to  duck  the  bulls,"  came  the 
slow,  sullen  answer. 

"Where?" 

"In  Central  Park." 

Probably  this  was  the  truth,  Clay  reflected.  He  could 
take  the  man's  word  or  not  as  he  pleased.  There  was  no 
way  to  disprove  it  now. 

He  recovered  his  revolver,  threw  the  automatic  out  of 
the  window,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"Joe's  tied  up  in  a  back  room,"  he  said  over  his 
shoulder. 

Thirty  seconds  later  Clay  stepped  into  the  street.  He 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  181 

walked  across  to  a  subway  station  and  took  an  uptown 
train. 

Men  looked  at  him  curiously.  His  face  was  bruised 
and  bleeding,  his  clothes  disheveled,  his  hat  torn.  Clay 
grinned  and  thought  of  the  old  answer: 

"They'd  ought  to  see  the  other  man." 

One  young  fellow,  apparently  a  college  boy,  who  had 
looked  upon  the  wine  when  it  was  red,  was  moved  to 
come  over  and  offer  condolence. 

"Say,  I  don't  want  to  butt  in  or  anything,  but  —  he 
did  n't  do  a  thing  to  you,  did  he?" 

"I  hit  the  edge  of  a  door  in  the  dark,"  explained  Clay 
solemnly. 

"That  door  must  have  had  several  edges."  The  youth 
made  a  confidential  admission.  "I've  got  an  edge  on 
myself,  sort  of." 

"Not  really?"  murmured  Clay  politely. 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  Say,  was  it  a  good  scrap?.'* 

"I'd  hate  to  mix  in  a  better  one." 

"Wish  I'd  been  there."  The  student  fumbled  for  a 
card.  "Did  n't  catch  your  name?" 

Clay  had  no  intention  of  giving  his  name  just  new  to 
any  casual  stranger.  He  laughed  and  hummed  the  chorus 
of  an  old  range  ditty : 

"I'm  a  poor  lonesome  cowboy, 
I'm  a  poor  lonesome  cowboy, 
I'm  a  poor  lonesome  cowboy, 
And  a  long  way  from  home." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
JOHNNIE  COMES  INTO  HIS  OWN 

WHEN  Clay  shot  off  at  a  tangent  from  the  car  and  ceased 
to  function  as  a  passenger,  Johnnie  made  an  effort  to 
descend  and  join  his  friend,  but  already  the  taxi  was 
traveling  at  a  speed  that  made  this  dangerous.  He  leaned 
out  of  the  open  door  and  shouted  to  the  driver. 

"Say,  lemme  out,  doggone  you.  I  wantta  get  out  right 
here." 

The  chauffeur  paid  not  the  least  attention  to  him.  He 
skidded  round  a  corner,  grazing  the  curb,  and  put  his 
foot  on  the  accelerator.  The  car  jumped  forward. 

The  passenger,  about  to  drop  from  the  running-board, 
changed  his  mind.  He  did  not  want  to  break  a  bone  or 
two  in  the  process  of  alighting. 

'  *F  you  don't  lemme  off  right  away  I  '11  not  pay  you 
a  cent  for  the  ride,"  Johnnie  shouted.  "You  got  no  right 
to  pack  me  off  thisaway." 

The  car  was  sweeping  down  the  wet  street,  now  and 
again  skidding  dangerously.  The  puncher  felt  homesick 
for  the  security  of  an  outlaw  bronco's  back.  This  wild 
East  was  no  place  for  him.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  a 
country  where  life  is  safe  and  sane  and  its  inhabitants 
have  a  respect  for  law.  Tame  old  Arizona  just  now  made 
a  big  appeal  to  one  of  its  sons. 

The  machine  went  drunkenly  up  the  street,  zigzag- 
ging like  a  homeward-bound  reveler.  It  swung  into 
Fourth  Avenue,  slowing  to  take  the  curve.  At  the  widest 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  18S 

gweep  of  the  arc  Johnnie  stepped  down.  His  feet  slid  from 
under  him  and  he  rolled  to  the  curb  across  the  wet 
asphalt.  Slowly  he  got  up  and  tested  himself  for  broken 
bones.  He  was  sure  he  had  dislocated  a  few  hips  and  it 
took  him  some  time  to  persuade  himself  he  was  all  right, 
except  for  some  bruises. 

But  Johnnie  free  had  no  idea  what  to  do.  He  was  as 
helpless  as  Johnnie  imprisoned  in  the  flying  cab.  Of  what 
Clay's  plan  had  been  he  had  not  the  remotest  idea.  Yet 
he  could  not  go  home  and  do  nothing.  He  must  keep 
searching.  But  where?  One  thing  stuck  in  his  mind.  His 
friend  had  mentioned  that  he  would  like  to  get  a  chance 
to  call  the  police  to  find  out  whether  Kitty  had  been 
rescued.  He  was  anxious  on  that  point  himself.  At  the 
first  cigar-store  he  stopped  and  was  put  on  the  wire  with 
headquarters.  He  learned  that  a  car  supposed  to  be  the 
one  wanted  had  been  driven  into  Central  Park  by  the 
police  a  few  minutes  earlier. 

Johnnie's  mind  carried  him  on  a  straight  line  to  the 
simplest  decision.  He  ran  across  to  Fifth  Avenue  and 
climbed  into  a  bus  going  uptown.  If  Kitty  was  in  Central 
Park  that  was  the  place  to  search  for  hen  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  by  the  time  he  reached  there  the  car  of 
the  abductors  would  be  miles  away,  nor  did  he  stop  to 
think  that  his  chances  of  finding  her  in  the  wooded  re- 
cesses of  the  Park  would  not  be  worth  the  long  end  of  a 
hundred  to  one  bet. 

At  the  Seventy-Second  Street  entrance  Johnnie  left 
the  bus  and  plunged  into  the  Park.  He  threaded  his  way 
along  walks  beneath  the  dripping  trees.  He  took  a  dozen 
shower  baths  under  water-laden  shrubbery.  Sometimes 


184  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

he  stopped  to  let  out  the  wild  war-whoop  with  which  he 
turned  cattle  at  the  point  in  the  good  old  days  a  month 
or  so  ago. 

The  gods  are  supposed  to  favor  fools,  children,  and 
drunken  men.  Johnnie  had  been  all  of  these  in  his  day. 
To-night  he  could  claim  no  more  than  one  at  most  of 
these  reasons  for  a  special  dispensation.  He  would  be 
twenty-three  "comin'  grass,"  as  he  would  have  expressed 
it,  and  he  had  n't  taken  a  drink  since  he  came  to  New 
York,  for  Clay  had  voted  himself  dry  years  ago  and  just 
now  he  carried  his  follower  with  him. 

But  the  impish  gods  who  delight  in  turning  upside 
down  the  best-laid  plans  of  mice  and  men  were  working 
overtime  to-night.  They  arranged  it  that  a  girl  cowering 
among  the  wet  bushes  bordering  an  unfrequented  path 
heard  the  "Hi  —  yi  —  yi"  of  Arizona  and  gave  a  faint 
cry  for  help.  That  call  reached  Johnnie  and  brought  him 
on  the  run. 

A  man  beside  the  girl  jumped  up  with  a  snarl,  gun  in 
hand. 

But  the  Runt  had  caught  a  sight  of  Kitty.  A  file  of 
fixed  bayonets  could  not  have  kept  him  from  trying  to 
rescue  her.  He  dived  through  the  brush  like  a  football 
tackier. 

A  gun  barked.  The  little  man  did  not  even  know  it. 
He  and  the  thug  went  down  together,  rolled  over, 
clawed  furiously  at  each  other,  and  got  to  their  feet 
simultaneously.  But  the  cowpuncher  held  the  gun  now. 
The  crook  glared  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  bolted  for 
the  safety  of  the  bushes  in  wild  flight. 

Johnnie  fired  once,  then  forgot  all  about  the  private 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  18$ 

little  war  he  had  started.  For  his  arms  were  full  of  a 
sobbing  Kitty  who  clung  to  him  while  she  wept  and 
talked  and  exclaimed  all  in  a  breath. 

"  I  knew  you  'd  come,  Johnnie.  I  knew  you  would  — 
you  or  Clay.  They  left  me  here  with  him  while  they  got 
away  from  the  police.  .  .  .  Oh,  I've  been  so  scared.  I 
did  n't  know  —  I  thought  — " 

"  'S  all  right.  'S  all  right,  liT  girl.  Don't  you  cry,  Kitty. 
Me  'n'  Clay  won't  let  'em  hurt  you  none.  We  sure  won't." 

"They  said  they  'd  c  "me  back  later  for  me,"  she  wept, 
uncertain  whether  to  be  hysterical  or  not. 

"I  wisht  they'd  come  now,"  he  bragged  valorously, 
and  for  the  moment  he  did. 

She  nestled  closer,  and  Johnnie's  heart  lost  a  beat.  He 
had  become  aware  of  a  dull  pain  in  the  shoulder  and  of 
something  wet  trickling  down  his  shoulder.  But  what  is 
one  little  bullet  in  your  geography  when  the  sweetest 
girl  in  the  world  is  in  your  arms? 

"I  ain't  nothin'  but  a  hammered-down  liT  hayseed  of 
*  cowpuncher,"  he  told  her,  his  voice  trembling,  "an* 
you  're  awful  pretty  an'  -  -  an'  — 

A  flag  of  color  fluttered  to  her  soft  cheeks.  The  silken 
lashes  fell  shyly.  "I  think  you're  fine  and  dandy,  the 
bravest  man  that  ever  was." 

"Do  you  —  figure  you  could  — ?  I  —  I  —  I  don't 
reckon  you  could  ever  — " 

He  stopped,  abashed.  To  him  this  creature  of  soft 
curves  was  of  heaven-sent  charm.  All  the  beauty  and 
vitality  of  her  youth  called  to  him.  It  seemed  to  Johnnie 
that  God  spoke  through  her.  Which  is  another  way  of 
saying  that  he  was  in  love  with  her. 


188  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

She  made  a  rustling  little  stir  in  his  arms  and  lifted  a 
flushed  face  very  tender  and  appealing.  In  the  darkness 
her  lips  slowly  turned  to  his. 

Johnnie  chose  that  inopportune  moment  to  get  sick  at 
the  stomach. 

"I  —  I 'm  goin'  to  faint,"  he  announced,  and  did. 

When  he  returned  to  his  love-story  Johnnie's  head 
was  in  Kitty's  lap  and  a  mounted  policeman  was  in  the 
foreground  of  the  scene.  His  face  was  wet  from  the  mist 
of  fine  rain  falling. 

"Don't  move.  Some  one  went  for  a  car,"  she  whis- 
pered, bending  over  him  so  that  flying  tendrils  of  her 
hair  brushed  his  cheek.  "Are  you  —  badly  hurt?" 

He  snorted.  "I'm  a  false  alarm.  Nothin'  a-tall.  He  jes' 
creased  me." 

"You're  so  brave,"  she  cried  admiringly. 

He  had  never  been  told  this  before.  He  suspected  H 
was  not  true,  but  to  hear  her  say  it  was  manna  to  his 
hungry  soul. 

The  policeman  helped  him  into  a  taxicab  after  first 
aid  had  been  given  and  Johnnie's  diagnosis  verified.  On 
the  way  home  the  cowpuncher  made  love.  He  discovered 
that  this  can  be  done  quite  well  with  one  arm,  both 
parties  being  willing. 

The  cab  stopped  at  the  house  of  a  doctor  and  the 
shoulder  was  dressed.  The  doctor  made  one  pardonable 
mistake. 

"  Get  your  wife  to  give  you  this  sleeping  powder  if  you 
find  you  can't  sleep,"  he  said. 

"Y'betcha,"  answered  Johnnie  cheerfully. 

Kitty  looked  at  him  reproachfully  and  blushed.  She 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  t»r 

scolded  him  about  it  after  they  reached  the  apartment 
where  they  lived. 

Her  new  fiance  defended  himself.  "He's  only  a  day  or 
two  prema-chure,  honey.  It  was  n't  hardly  worth  while 
explainin',"  he  claimed. 

"A  day  or  two.  Oh,  Johnnie!" 

"Sure.  I  ain't  gonna  wait.  Wha's  the  matter  with  to- 
morrow?" 

"I  have  n't  any  clothes  made,"  she  evaded,  and  added 
by  way  of  diversion,  "I  always  liked  that  kinda  golden 
down  on  your  cheeks." 

"The  stores  are  full  of  'em.  An'  we  ain't  talkin'  about 
my  whiskers  —  not  right  now." 

"You're  a  nice  old  thing,"  she  whispered,  flashing 
into  unexpected  dimples,  and  she  rewarded  him  for  his 
niceness  in  a  way  he  thought  altogether  desirable. 

A  crisp,  strong  step  sounded  outside.  The  door 
opened  and  Clay  came  into  the  room. 

He  looked  at  Kitty.  "Thank  Heaven,  you're  safe," 
he  said. 

"Johnnie  rescued  me,"  she  cried.  "He  got  shot  —  in 
the  shoulder." 

The  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"Bad,  Johnnie?" 

"Nope.  A  plumb  liT  scratch.  Wha's  the  matter  with 
you?" 

A  gleam  of  humor  flitted  into  the  eyes  of  the  cattle- 
man. "I  ran  into  a  door." 

"Say,  Clay,"  Johnnie  burst  out,  "I'll  betcha  can't 
guess." 

His  friend  laughed  in  amiable  derision.  "Oh,  yon 


168  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

kids  in  the  woods.  I  knew  it  soon  as  I  opened  the 
door." 

He  walked  up  to  the  girl  and  took  her  hand.  "You 
got  a  good  man,  Kitty.  I  'm  wishin'  you  all  the  joy  in  the 
world." 

Her  eyes  flashed  softly.  "Don't  I  know  I  Ve  got  a 
good  man,  and  I  'm  going  to  be  happier  than  I  de- 
serve." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
CLAY  LAYS  DOWN  THE  LAW 

TIM  MULDOON,  iii  bis  shirt-sleeves,  was  busy  over  &  late 
breakfast  when  his  mother  opened  the  door  of  the  flat  to 
let  in  Clay  Lindsay. 

The  policeman  took  one  look  at  the  damaged  face  and 
forgot  the  plate  of  ham  and  eggs  that  had  just  been  put 
before  him. 

"Yuh've  been  at  it  again!"  he  cried,  his  Irish  eyes 
lighting  up  with  anticipatory  enjoyment. 

"I  had  a  little  set-to  with  friend  Jerry  last  night,"  the 
Westerner  explained. 

"Another?" 

"Now  don't  you  blame  me.  I'm  a  peaceful  citizen  — 
not  lookin'  for  trouble  a  HT  bit.  But  I  don't  aim  to  let 
this  Durand  comb  my  hair  with  a  rake." 

"What's  the  trouble  now?" 

"You  heard  about  the  girl  abducted  in  an  auto  from 
the  Bronx?" 

"Uh-huh!  Was  Jerry  in  that?" 

"He  was.  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  story,  Tim." 

"Meet  my  mother  first.  Mother  —  Mr.  Lindsay. 
Yuh've  heard  me  talk  av  him." 

Mrs.  Muldoon's  blue  Irish  eyes  twinkled.  She  was  a 
plump  and  ample  woman,  and  her  handshake  was  firm 
and  strong. 

"I  have  that.  Tim  thinks  yuh  a  wonder,  Mr.  Lind- 
say." 


190  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Oh,  he's  prejudiced.  You  see  he  does  n't  like  the  Big 
Mogul  Jerry." 

"Well,  he's  sure  a  booster  for  yuh." 

Clay  told  the  story  of  his  encounter  with  Durand  on 
the  train  and  of  his  subsequent  meetings  with  him  at  the 
Sea  Siren  and  on  the  night  of  the  poker  party.  He  made 
elisions  and  emendations  that  removed  the  bedroom 
scene  from  the  tale. 

"So  that's  when  yuh  met  Annie  Millikan,"  Tim  said. 
"I  was  wonderin'  how  yuh  knew  her." 

"That's  when  I  met  her.  She's  one  fine  girl,  Tim,  a 
sure-enough  thoroughbred.  She  has  fought  against 
heavy  odds  all  her  life  to  keep  good  and  honest.  And 
she's  done  it." 

"She  has  that,"  agreed  Mrs.  Muldoon  heartily. 
"Annie  is  a  good  girrl.  I  always  liked  her." 

"I'd  bet  my  last  chip  on  Annie.  So  last  night  I  went 
straight  to  her.  She  would  n't  throw  down  'Slim'  Jim, 
but  she  gave  me  an  address.  I  went  there  and  mefc 
Durand." 

"With  his  gang?"  asked  Tim. 

"No;  I  waited  till  they  had  gone.  I  locked  myself  in  a 
room  alone  with  him.  He  took  eight  shots  at  me  in  the 
dark  and  then  we  mixed." 

"Mother  o'  Moses!"  exclaimed  the  policeman.  "In 
the  dark?" 

"No.  I  had  switched  the  lights  on." 

"You  bate  him!  I  can  see  it  in  your  eye!"  cried  Mul- 
doon, pounding  the  table  so  that  the  dishes  jumped. 

"You'll  have  to  ask  him  about  that."  Clay  passed  to 
more  important  facts.  "When  I  reached  home  Kitty  was 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  191 

there.  They  had  dropped  her  in  the  Park  to  make  a  safe 
getaway." 

"That's  good." 

"But  Tim  —  when  Annie  Millikan  gave  me  the 
address  where  Jerry  Durand  was,  the  driver  of  my  taxi 
saw  her.  The  man  was  'Slim'  Jim." 

Muldoon  sat  up,  a  serious  look  on  his  face.  "Man, 
yuh  spilt  the  beans  that  time.  How'd  you  ever  come  to 
do  it?  They'll  take  it  out  on  Annie,  the  dogs."  The  eyes 
of  the  policeman  blazed. 

"Unless  we  stand  by  her." 

"Sure,  and  we'll  do  that.  But  how?" 

"First  we've  got  to  get  her  away  from  there  to  some 
decent  place  where  she'll  be  safe." 

Mrs.  Muldoon  spoke  up.  "And  that's  easy.  She'll 
just  take  our  spare  bedroom  and  welcome." 

Tim  put  an  arm  caressingly  over  his  mother's  shoul- 
ders. "Ain't  she  the  best  little  sport  ever,  Mr.  Lindsay?" 
he  said  proudly. 

Clay  smiled.  "She  sure  enough  grades  'way  up." 

"It's  blarney  yuh 're  both  talkin',"  snorted  Mrs.  Mul- 
doon. "Sure  the  girrl  needs  a  mother  and  a  home.  An'  I 
don't  doubt  she'll  pay  her  way." 

"Then  that's  settled.  Will  you  see  Annie,  Tim?  Or 
shall  I?" 

"We'll  both  see  her.  But  there's  another  thing.  Will 
she  be  safe  here?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  have  a  talk  with  'Slim'  Jim  and  try  to 
throw  a  scare  into  him.  I  '11  report  to  you  what  he  says." 

They  took  a  trolley  to  the  lodging-house  where  Annie 
lived. 


192  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

The  girl  looked  pale  and  tired.  Clay  guessed  she  had 
slept  little.  The  memory  of  "  Slim  "  Jim's  snarling  face 
had  stood  out  in  the  darkness  at  the  foot  of  her  bed. 

"Is  this  a  pinch?"  she  asked  Tim  with  a  pert  little 
tilt  to  her  chin. 

"Yuh  can  call  it  that,  Annie.  Mother  wants  yuh  to 
come  and  stay  with  us." 

"And  what  would  I  do  that  for,  Mr.  Tim  Muldoon?" 
she  asked  promptly,  the  color  flushing  her  cheeks. 

"Because  you're  not  safe  here.  That  gang  will  make 
yuh  pay  somehow  for  what  yuh  did." 

"And  if  your  mother  took  me  in  they  'd  make  her  pay. 
You  'd  maybe  lose  your  job." 

"I'd  find  another.  I'm  thinkin'  of  quittin'  anyhow." 

"Say,  whadya  think  I  am?  I'll  not  go.  I  can  look  out 
for  myself." 

"I  don't  think  they'd  get  Tim,"  put  in  Clay.  "I'm 
goin'  to  see  Collins  and  have  a  talk  with  him." 

"You  can't  salve  Jim  with  soft  soap." 

"Did  I  mention  soft  soap?" 

"I  heard  some  one  most  killed  Jerry  Durand  last 
night,"  said  Annie  abruptly,  staring  at  Lindsay's  bruised 
face.  "Was  it  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Arizonan  simply. 

"Did  you  get  the  girl?" 

"They  dropped  her  to  save  themselves.  My  friend 
found  her  with  a  man  and  took  her  from  him." 

"I  hope  you  did  up  Jerry  right!"  cried  Annie,  a  vin- 
dictive flash  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"I  have  n't  called  him  up  this  mo'nin'  to  see  how  he's 
feelin',"  said  Clay  whimsically.  "Miss  Annie,  we're 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  198 

worried  some  about  you.  Mrs.  Muldoon  is  right  anxious 
for  us  to  get  you  to  come  and  stay  awhile  with  her.  She's 
honin'  to  have  a  liT  girl  to  mother.  Don't  you  reckon 
you  can  go?" 

"I  —  I  wish  yuh'd  come,  Annie,"  blurted  out  Tim- 
looking  down  his  nose. 

Tears  brimmed  in  Annie's  eyes.  To  Clay  it  seemed 
there  was  something  hungry  in  the  look  the  girl  gave 
Muldoon.  She  did  not  want  his  pity  alone.  She  would 
not  have  their  hospitality  if  they  were  giving  it  to  a  girl 
they  despised  and  wanted  to  reform. 

"I'm  an  alley  cat  you're  offerin'  to  take  in  and  feed, 
Tim  Muldoon,"  she  charged  suspiciously. 

"  Yuh're  the  girl  —  my  mother  loves."  He  choked  on 
the  impulsive  avowal  he  had  almost  made  and  finished 
the  sentence  awkwardly.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to 
escape  the  natural  male  instinct  to  keep  his  feelings  out 
of  words. 

The  girl's  face  softened.  Inside,  she  was  a  river  of  ten- 
derness flowing  toward  the  Irishman.  "I'll  go  to  your 
mother,  Tim,  if  she  really  wants  me,"  she  cried  almost  in 
a  murmur. 

"You're  shoutin'  now,  Miss  Annie,"  said  Clay,  smil- 
ing. "She  sure  wants  you.  I'll  hit  the  trail  to  have  that 
talk  with  Jim  Collins." 

He  found  "Slim"  Jim  at  his  stand.  That  flashily 
dressed  young  crook  eyed  him  with  a  dogged  and  wary 
defiance.  He  had  just  come  from  a  call  at  the  bedside  of 
Jerry  Durand  and  he  felt  a  healthy  respect  for  the  man 
who  could  do  what  this  light-stepping  young  fellow  had 
done  to  the  champion  rough-houser  of  New  York.  The 


It*  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

story  Jerry  had  told  was  of  an  assault  from  behind  with 
a  club,  but  this  Collins  did  not  accept  at  par.  There  were 
too  many  bruises  on  his  sides  and  cuts  on  his  face  to  be 
accounted  for  in  any  way  except  by  a  hard  toe-to-toe 
fight. 

"Mo'nin',  Mr.  Collins.  I  left  you  in  a  hurry  last  night 
and  forgot  to  pay  my  bill.  What's  the  damage?"  asked 
Clay  in  his  gently  ironic  drawl. 

"Slim"  Jim  growled  something  the  meaning  of  which 
was  drowned  in  an  oath. 

"You  say  it  was  a  free  ride?  Much  obliged.  That's 
tare  fair  enough,"  Clay  went  on  easily.  "  Well,  I  did  n't 
come  to  talk  to  you  about  that.  I've  got  other  business 
with  you  this  mo'nin'." 

The  chauffeur  looked  at  him  sullenly  and  silently. 

"Suppose  we  get  inside  the  cab  where  we  can  talk 
comfortably,"  Clay  proposed. 

"Say,  I'll  stay  right  where  I'm  at,"  announced 
"Slim"  Jim. 

The  cattleman  opened  the  cab  door.  "Oh,  no,  we'll  go 
inside,"  he  said  softly. 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  and  battled.  The  eye  is 
a  more  potent  weapon  than  the  rapier.  The  shallow, 
shifty  ones  of  the  gunman  fell  before  the  deep,  steady 
ones  of  the  Arizonan.  "Slim"  Jim,  with  a  touch  of 
swagger  to  save  his  face,  stepped  into  the  cab  and  sat 
down.  Clay  followed  him,  closing  the  door. 

"Have  you  seen  Jerry  Durand  this  sunny  mo'nin'?" 
asked  Lindsay  with  surface  amiability. 

"Wot's  it  to  you?"  demanded  Collins. 

"Not  a  thing.  Nothin'  a-tall,"  agreed  Clay.  "But  it 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  196 

may  be  somethin'  to  you.  I'm  kinda  wonderin'  whether 
1*11  have  to  do  to  you  what  I  did  to  him." 

"Slim"  Jim  was  not  a  man  of  his  hands.  He  could  use 
a  gun  on  occasion,  if  the  advantage  was  all  in  his  favor, 
but  he  strictly  declined  personal  encounters  at  closer 
quarters.  Now  he  reached  for  the  door  hastily. 

A  strong,  sinewy  hand  fell  on  his  arm  and  tightened, 
slightly  twisting  the  flesh  as  the  fingers  sank  deeper. 

Collins  let  out  a  yell.  "Gawd!  Don't  do  that.  You're 
killin'  me." 

"Beg  yore  pardon.  An  accident.  If  I  get  annoyed 
I'm  liable  to  hurt  without  meanin'  to,"  apologized 
Clay  suavely.  "I'll  come  right  down  to  brass  tacks, 
Mr.  Collins.  You  're  through  with  Annie  Millikan.  Under- 
stand?" 

"Say,  wot  t 'ell's  this  stuff  you're  pipin'?  Who  d'  you 
t'ink  youse  are?" 

"  Never  mind  who  I  am.  You  '11  keep  away  from  Annie 
from  now  on  —  absolutely.  If  you  bother  her  —  if  any- 
thing happens  to  her  —  well,  you  go  and  take  a  good 
long  look  at  Durand  before  you  make  any  mis- 
takes." 

"You  touch  me  an'  I'll  croak  you.  See!"  hissed  Col- 
lins. "It  won't  be  rough-house  stuff  with  me.  I'll  fix 
youse  so  the  gospel  sharks '11  sing  gather-at-the-river  for 
you." 

"A  gun-play?"  asked  Clay  pleasantly.  "Say,  there's 
a  shootin'-gallery  round  the  corner.  Come  along.  I 
wantta  show  you  somethin'." 

"Aw,  go  to  hell!" 

The  sinewy  hand  moved  again  toward  the  aching 


199  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

muscles  of  the  gunman.  Collins  changed  his  mind  hur- 
riedly. 

"All  right.  I'll  come,"  he  growled. 

Clay  tossed  a  dollar  down  on  the  counter,  took  a  .22, 
and  aimed  at  the  row  of  ducks  sailing  across  the  gallery 
pool.  Each  duck  went  down  as  it  appeared.  He  picked  up 
a  second  rifle  and  knocked  over  seven  or  eight  mice  as 
they  scampered  across  the  target  screen.  With  a  third 
gun  lie  snuffed  the  flaming  eye  from  the  right  to  the  left 
side  of  the  face  that  grinned  at  him,  then  with  another 
shot  sent  it  back  again.  He  smashed  a  few  clay  pipes  by 
way  of  variety.  To  finish  off  with  he  scored  six  center 
shots  in  a  target  and  rang  a  bell  each  time.  Not  one  sin- 
gle bullet  had  failed  to  reach  its  mark. 

The  New  York  gunman  had  never  seen  such  speed 
and  accuracy.  He  was  impressed  in  spite  of  the  insolent 
sneer  that  still  curled  his  lip. 

'*  Got  a  six-shooter  —  a  fohty-five?  "  asked  Clay  of  the 
owner  of  the  gallery. 

"No." 

"Sorry.  I'm  not  much  with  a  rifle,  but  I'm  a  good 
average  shot  with  a  six-gun.  I  kinda  take  to  it  natural." 

They  turned  and  walked  back  to  the  cab.  Collins  fell 
into  the  Bowery  strut. 

"Tryin5  to  throw  a  scare  into  me,"  he  argued  feebly. 

"Me?  Oh,  no.  You  mentioned  soft  music  and  the 
preacher.  Mebbeso.  But  it's  liable  to  be  for  you  if  you 
monkey  with  the  buzz-saw.  I'm  no  gun-sharp,  but  no 
man  who  can't  empty  a  revolver  in  a  shade  better  than 
two  seconds  and  put  every  bullet  inside  the  rim  of  a  cup 
at  fifteen  yards  wants  to  throw  lead  at  me.  You  see,  I 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  197 

hang  up  my  hat  in  Arizona.  I  grew  up  with  a  six-gun  by 
my  side." 

"I  should  worry.  This  is  little  old  New  York,  not 
Arizona,"  the  gangman  answered. 

"That's  what  yore  boss  Durand  thought.  What  has 
it  brought  him  but  trouble?  Lemme  give  you  something 
to  chew  on.  New  York's  the  biggest  city  of  the  biggest, 
freest  country  on  God's  green  footstool.  You  little  sewer 
rats  pull  wires  and  think  you  run  it.  Get  wise,  you  poor 
locoed  gink.  You  run  it  about  as  much  as  that  fly  on  the 
wheel  of  yore  taxi  drives  the  engine.  Durand's  the  whole 
works  by  his  way  of  it,  but  when  some  one  calls  his 
bluff  see  where  he  gets  off." 

"He  ain't  through  with  you  yet,"  growled  "Slim" 
Jim  sulkily. 

"Mebbe  not,  but  you  —  you're  through  with  Annie." 
Clay  caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  swung  him  round. 
His  eyes  bored  chilly  into  the  other  man.  "Don't  you 
forget  to  remember  not  to  forget  that.  Let  her  alone. 
Don't  go  near  her  or  play  any  tricks  to  hurt  her.  Lay  off 
for  good.  If  you  don't  —  well,  you'll  pay  heavy.  I'll  be 
on  the  job  personal  to  collect." 

Clay  swung  away  and  strode  down  the  street,  light- 
heeled  and  lithe,  the  sap  of  vital  youth  in  every  rippling 
muscle. 

"Slim"  Jim  watched  him,  snarling  hatred.  If  ever  he 
got  a  good  chance  at  him  it  would  be  curtains  for  the 
guy  from  Arizona,  he  swore  savagely. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
JOHNNIE  SAYS  HE  IS  MUCH  OBLIGED 

BEATRICE,  just  back  from  riding  with  Bromfield,  stood 
on  the  steps  in  front  of  the  grilled  door  and  stripped  the 
gloves  from  her  hands. 

"I'm  on  fire  with  impatience,  Bee,"  he  told  her.  "I 
can  hardly  wait  for  that  three  weeks  to  pass.  The  days 
drag  when  I'm  not  with  you." 

He  was  standing  a  step  or  two  below  her,  a  graceful, 
well-groomed  figure  of  ease,  an  altogether  desirable 
catch  in  the  matrimonial  market.  His  dark  hair,  parted 
in  the  middle,  was  beginning  to  thin,  and  tiny  crow's- 
feet  radiated  from  the  eyes,  but  he  retained  the  light, 
slim  figure  of  youth.  It  ought  not  to  be  hard  to  love 
Clarendon  Bromfield,  his  fiancee  reflected.  Yet  he  disap- 
pointingly failed  to  stir  her  pulses. 

She  smiled  with  friendly  derision.  "Poor  Clary!  You 
don't  look  like  a  Vesuvius  ready  to  erupt.  You  have  such 
remarkable  self-control." 

His  smile  met  hers.  "I  can't  go  up  and  down  the  street 
ringing  a  bell  like  a  town  crier  and  shouting  it  out  to 
everybody  I  meet." 

Round  the  corner  of  the  house  a  voice  was  lifted  in 
tuneless  song. 

"Oh,  I'm  goin'  home 

Bull-whackin'  for  to  spurn; 
I  ain't  got  a  nickel, 

And  I  don't  give  a  dern. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  199 

T  is  when  I  meet  a  pretty  girl, 
You  bet  I  will  or  try, 

I'll  make  her  my  little  wife, 
Root  hog  or  die." 

"You  see  Johnnie  is  n't  ashamed  to  shout  out  his  good 
intentions,"  she  said. 

"Johnnie  is  n't  engaged  to  the  loveliest  creature  un- 
der heaven.  He  does  n't  have  to  lie  awake  nights  for 
fear  the  skies  will  fall  and  blot  him  out  before  his  day  of 
bliss." 

Beatrice  dropped  a  little  curtsy.  She  held  out  her  hand 
in  dismissal.  "Till  to-morrow,  Clary." 

As  Bromfield  turned  away,  Johnnie  came  round  a 
corner  of  the  house  dragging  a  garden  hose.  He  was 
attacking  another  stanza  of  the  song: 

"There's  hard  times  on  old  Bitter  Creek 

That  never  can  be  beat. 
It  was  root  hog  or  die 
Under  every  wagon  sheet. 
We  cleared  up  all  the  Indians, 
Drank  ..." 

The  puncher  stopped  abruptly  at  sight  of  his  mis- 
tress. 

"What  did  you  drink  that  has  made  you  so  happy 
this  morning,  Johnnie?"  she  asked  lightly. 

The  cowpuncher's  secret  burst  from  him.  "I  done  got 
married,  Miss  Beatrice." 

"You  — what?" 

"I  up  and  got  married  day  before  yesterday,"  he 
beamed. 

"And  who's  the  happy  girl?" 

"Kitty  Mason.  We  jes'  walked  to  the  church  round 


200  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

the  corner.  Clay  he  stood  up  with  us  and  give  the  bride 
away.  It's  me 'n'  her  for  Arizona  poco  pronto" 

Beatrice  felt  a  queer  joyous  lift  inside  her  as  of  some 
weight  that  had  gone.  In  a  single  breath  Johnnie  had 
blown  away  the  mists  of  misunderstanding  that  for 
weeks  had  clouded  her  vision.  Her  heart  went  out  to  Clay 
with  a  rush  of  warm  emotion.  The  friend  she  had  dis- 
trusted was  all  she  had  ever  believed  him.  He  was  more 
—  a  man  too  stanch  to  desert  under  pressure  any  one 
who  had  even  a  slight  claim  on  him. 

"I  want  to  meet  her.  Will  you  bring  her  to  see  me  this 
afternoon,  Johnnie?"  she  asked. 

His  face  was  one  glad  grin.  "I  sure  will.  Y'betcha,  by 
jollies." 

He  did. 

To  Beatrice,  busy  writing  a  letter,  came  Jenkins  some 
hours  later. 

"A  young  —  person  —  to  see  you,  Miss  Whitford." 
He  said  it  with  a  manner  so  apologetic  that  it  stressed 
his  opinion  of  the  social  status  of  the  visitor. 

"What  kind  of  a  person?" 

"A  young  woman,  Miss.  From  the  country,  I  tyke  it." 

"She  did  n't  give  you  a  card?" 

"No,  Miss.  She  came  with  the  person  Mr.  Whitford 
took  on  to  'elp  with  the  work  houtside." 

"Oh!  Show  them  both  up.  And  have  tea  sent  in, 
Jenkins." 

Kitty's  shy  eyes  lifted  apprehensively  to  those  of  this 
slim  young  patrician  so  beautifully  and  simply  gowned. 
Instantly  her  fears  fled.  Beatrice  moved  swiftly  to  her 
with  both  hands  outstretched. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  «oi 

"I'm  so  glad  to  meet  you." 

She  kissed  the  young  wife  with  unaccustomed  tender- 
ness. For  the  Colorado  girl  had  about  her  a  certain 
modesty  that  was  disarming,  an  appeal  of  helplessness 
Beatrice  could  not  resist. 

Kitty,  in  the  arms  of  her  hostess,  wept  a  few  tears. 
She  had  been  under  a  strain  in  anticipating  the  ordeal  of 
meeting  Johnnie's  mistress,  and  she  had  discovered  her 
to  be  a  very  sweet,  warm-hearted  girl. 

As  for  Johnnie,  he  had  a  miserably  happy  half-hour. 
He  had  brought  his  hat  in  with  him  and  he  did  not  know 
how  to  dispose  of  it.  What  he  did  do  was  to  keep  it 
revolving  in  his  hands.  This  had  to  be  abandoned  when 
Miss  Whitford  handed  him  a  quite  unnecessary  cup  of 
tea  and  a  superfluous  plate  of  toasted  English  muffins. 
He  wished  his  hands  had  not  been  so  big  and  red  and 
freckled.  Also  he  had  an  uncomfortable  suspicion  that 
his  tow  hair  was  tousled  and  uncombed  in  spite  of  his 
attempts  at  home  to  plaster  it  down. 

He  declined  sugar  and  cream  because  for  some  reason 
it  seemed  easier  to  say  "No'm"  than  "Yes,"  though  he 
always  took  both  with  tea.  And  he  disgraced  himself  by 
scalding  his  tongue  and  failing  to  suppress  the  pain. 
Finally  the  plate,  with  his  muffin,  carefully  balanced  on 
his  knee,  from  some  devilish  caprice  plunged  over  the 
precipice  to  the  carpet  and  the  bit  of  china  broke. 

Whereupon  Kitty  gently  reproved  him,  as  was  her 
wifely  duty. 

"I  ain't  no  society  fellow,"  the  distressed  puncher 
explained  to  his  hostess,  tiny  beads  of  perspiration  on 
his  forehead. 


808  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Beatrice  had  already  guessed  as  much,  but  she  did  not 
admit  it  to  Johnnie.  She  and  Kitty  smiled  at  each  other 
in  that  common  superiority  which  their  sex  gives  them 
to  any  mere  man  upon  such  an  occasion.  For  Mrs.  John 
Green,  though  afternoon  tea  was  to  her  too  an  alien  cus- 
tom, took  to  it  as  a  duck  does  to  water. 

Miss  Whitford  handed  Johnnie  an  envelope.  "  Would 
it  be  too  much  trouble  for  you  to  take  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Lindsay?"  she  asked  very  casually  as  they  rose  to  go. 

The  bridegroom  said  he  was  much  obliged  and  he 
would  be  plumb  tickled  to  take  a  message  to  Clay. 

When  Clay  read  the  note  his  blood  glowed.  It  was  a 
characteristic  two-line  apology: 

I've  been  a  horrid  little  prig,  Clay  [so  the  letter  rani.  Won*t 
you  come  over  to-morrow  and  go  riding  with  me? 

BEATRICE 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  LOCKED  GATE 

COLIN  WHITFORD  had  been  telling  Clay  the  story  of  how 
a  young  cowpuncher  had  snatched  Beatrice  from  under 
the  hoofs  of  a  charging  steer.  His  daughter  and  th* 
Arizonan  listened  without  comment. 

"  I  Ve  always  thought  I  'd  like  to  explain  to  that  young 
man  I  did  n't  mean  to  insult  him  by  offering  money  for 
saving  Bee.  But  you  see  he  did  n't  give  me  any  chance.  I 
never  did  learn  his  name,"  concluded  the  mining  man. 

"And  of  course  we'd  like  him  to  know  that  we  appre- 
ciate what  he  did  for  me,"  Beatrice  added.  She  looked  at 
Clay,  and  a  pulse  beat  in  her  soft  throat. 

"I  reckon  he  knows  that,"  Lindsay  suggested.  "You 
must  V  thought  him  mighty  rude  for  to  break  away  like 
you  say  he  did." 

"We  could  n't  understand  it  till  afterwards.  Mr. 
Bromfield  had  slipped  him  a  fifty-dollar  bill  and  natur- 
ally he  resented  it."  Miss  Whitford's  face  bubbled  witk 
reminiscent  mirth.  She  looked  a  question  at  Clay. 
"What  do  you  suppose  that  impudent  young  scalawag 
did  with  the  fifty?" 

"Got  drunk  on  it  most  likely." 

"He  fed  it  to  his  horse.  Clary  was  furious." 

"He  would  be,"  said  the  cattleman  dryly,  in  spite  of 
the  best  intentions  to  be  generous  to  his  successful  rival. 
"But  I  reckon  I  know  why  yore  grand-stand  friend  in 
chaps  pulled  such  a  play.  In  Arizona  you  can't  square 


204  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

such  things  with  money.  So  far  as  I  can  make  out  the 
puncher  did  n't  do  anything  to  write  home  about,  but 
he  did  n't  want  pay  for  it  anyhow." 

"Of  course,  Bromfield  does  n't  understand  the  West," 
said  Whitford.  "I  would  n't  like  that  young  puncher  hah* 
so  well  if  he'd  taken  the  money." 

"He  did  n't  need  to  spoil  a  perfectly  good  fifty-dollar 
bill,  though,"  admitted  Clay. 

"Yes,  he  did,"  denied  Beatrice.  "That  was  his  protest 
against  Clarendon's  misjudgment  of  him.  I've  always 
thought  it  perfectly  splendid  in  its  insolence.  Some  day 
I'm  going  to  tell  him  so." 

"It  happened  in  your  corner  of  Arizona,  Lindsay.  If 
you  ever  find  out  who  the  chap  was  I  wish  you  'd  let  us 
know,"  Whitford  said. 

"I'll  remember." 

"If  you  young  people  are  going  riding  — 

"  —  We  'd  better  get  started.  Quite  right,  Dad.  We're 
off.  Clarendon  will  probably  call  up.  Tell  him  I  '11  be  in 
about  four-thirty." 

She  pinched  her  father's  ear,  kissed  him  on  one  ruddy 
cheek,  then  on  the  other,  and  joined  Clay  at  the  door. 

They  were  friends  again,  had  been  for  almost  half  an 
hour,  even  though  they  had  not  yet  been  alone  together, 
but  their  friendship  was  to  hold  reservations  now.  The 
shadow  of  Clarendon  Bromfield  rode  between  them. 
They  were  a  little  stiff  with  each  other,  not  so  casual  as 
they  had  been.  A  consciousness  of  sex  had  obtruded  into 
the  old  boyish  camaraderie. 

After  a  brisk  canter  they  drew  their  horses  together 
lor  a  walk. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  205 

Beatrice  broke  the  ice  of  their  commonplaces.  She 
looked  directly  at  him,  her  cheeks  flushing.  "I  don't 
know  how  you  're  going  to  forgive  me,  Clay.  I  've  been 
awf  ly  small  and  priggish.  I  hate  to  think  I'm  ungener- 
ous, but  that's  just  what  I've  been." 

"Let's  forget  it,"  he  said  gently. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to  forget  —  not  till  I've  told  you 
how  humble  I  feel  to-day.  I  might  have  trusted  you.  Why 
did  n't  I?  It  would  have  been  easy  for  me  to  have  taken 
your  little  friend  in  and  made  things  right  for  her.  That's 
what  I  ought  to  have  done.  But,  instead  of  that  —  Oh, 
I  hate  myself  for  the  way  I  acted." 

Her  troubled  smile,  grave  and  sweet,  touched  him 
closely.  It  was  in  his  horoscope  that  the  spell  of  this 
young  Diana  must  be  upon  him. 

He  put  his  hand  on  hers  as  it  rested  on  the  pommel  of 
the  saddle  and  gave  it  a  slight  pressure.  "You're  a  good 
scout,  HT  pardner." 

But  it  was  Beatrice's  way  to  step  up  to  punishment 
and  take  what  was  coming.  As  a  little  girl,  while  still 
almost  a  baby,  she  had  once  walked  up  to  her  mother, 
eyes  flashing  with  spirit,  and  pronounced  judgment  on 
herself.  "  I  've  turn  to  be  spanked.  I  broke  Claire's  doll  an* 
I  'm  glad  of  it,  mean  old  fing.  So  there ! "  Now  she  was  not 
going  to  let  the  subject  drop  until  she  had  freed  her  soul. 

"No,  Clay,  I've  been  a  poor  sportsman.  When  my 
friend  needed  me  I  failed  him.  It  hurts  me,  because  — 
oh,  you  know.  When  the  test  came  I  was  n't  there.  One 
hates  to  be  a  quitter." 

Her  humility  distressed  him,  though  he  loved  the 
spirit  of  her  apology. 


206  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"It's  all  right,  Bee.  Don't  you  worry.  All  friends  mis* 
understand  each  other,  but  the  real  ones  clear  things 
up." 

She  had  not  yet  told  him  the  whole  truth  and  she 
meant  to  make  clean  confession. 

"I've  been  a  miserable  little  fool."  She  stopped  with 
a  little  catch  of  the  breath,  flamed  red,  and  plunged  on. 
Her  level  eyes  never  flinched  from  his.  "I've  got  to  out 
with  it,  Clay.  You  won't  misunderstand,  I  know.  I  was 
jealous.  I  wanted  to  keep  your  friendship  to  myself  — 
did  n't  want  to  share  it  with  another  girl.  That's  how 
mean  I  am." 

A  warm  smile  lit  his  face.  "I've  sure  enough  found  my 
friend  again  this  mo'nin'." 

Her  smile  met  his.  Then,  lest  barriers  fall  too  fast 
between  them,  she  put  her  horse  to  a  gallop. 

As  they  moved  into  the  Park  a  snorting  automobile 
leaped  past  them  with  muffler  open.  The  horse  upon 
which  Beatrice  rode  was  a  young  one.  It  gave  instant 
signals  of  alarm,  went  sunfishing  on  its  hind  legs,  came 
down  to  all  fours,  and  bolted. 

Beatrice  kept  her  head.  She  put  her  weight  on  the 
reins  with  all  the  grip  of  her  small,  strong  hands.  But  the 
horse  had  the  bit  in  its  teeth.  She  felt  herself  helpless, 
flying  wildly  down  the  road  at  incredible  speed.  Bushes 
and  trees,  the  reeling  road,  a  limousine,  a  mounted  po- 
liceman, all  flew  by  her  with  blurred  detail. 

She  became  aware  of  the  rapid  thud  of  hoofs  behind, 
of  a  figure  beside  her  riding  knee  to  knee,  of  a  brown 
hand  taking  hold  of  the  rein  close  to  the  bit.  The  speed 
slackened.  The  horses  pounded  to  a  halt. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  Sffi 

The  girl  found  herself  trembling.  She  leaned  back  in 
a  haze  of  dizziness  against  an  arm  which  circled  her 
shoulder  and  waist.  Memory  leaped  across  the  years  to 
that  other  time  when  she  had  rested  in  his  arms,  his 
heart  beating  against  hers.  In  that  moment  of  deep 
understanding  of  herself,  Beatrice  knew  the  truth  be- 
yond any  doubt.  A  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  were 
waiting  for  her,  but  she  could  not  enter  them.  For  she 
herself  had  closed  the  gate  and  locked  it  fast. 

His  low  voice  soothed  and  comforted  her. 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  told  him. 

Clay  withdrew  his  arm.  "I'd  report  that  fellow  if  I 
had  his  number,"  he  said.  "You  stick  to  yore  saddle  fine. 
You're  one  straight-up  rider." 

"I'll  ask  Mr.  Bromfield  to  give  you  fifty  dollars 
again,"  she  laughed  nervously. 

That  word  again  stuck  in  his  consciousness. 

"You've  known  me  all  along,"  he  charged. 

"Of  course  I've  known  you  —  knew  you  when  you 
stood  on  the  steps  after  you  had  tied  the  janitor." 

"I  knew  you,  too." 

"Why  did  n't  you  say  so?" 

"Did  you  expect  me  to  make  that  grand-stand  play 
on  the  parada  a  claim  on  yore  kindness?  I  did  n't  do  a 
thing  for  you  that  day  any  man  would  n't  have  done.  I 
happened  to  be  the  lucky  fellow  that  got  the  chance. 
That's  all.  Come  to  that,  it  was  up  to  you  to  do  the 
recognizing  if  any  was  done.  I  had  it  worked  out  that 
you  did  n't  know  me,  but  once  or  twice  from  things  you 
said  I  almost  thought  you  did." 

"I  meant  to  tell  you  sometime,  but  —  well,  I  wanted 


208  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

to  see  how  long  you  could  keep  from  telling  me.  Now 
you've  done  it  again." 

"  I  'd  like  to  ride  with  you  the  rest  of  yore  life,*'  he  said 
unexpectedly. 

They  trembled  on  the  edge  of  self -revelation.  It  was 
the  girl  who  rescued  them  from  the  expression  of  their 
emotions. 

"  I  '11  speak  to  Clary  about  it.  Maybe  he  '11  take  you  on 
as  a  groom,"  she  said  with  surface  lightness. 

As  soon  as  they  reached  home  Beatrice  led  the  way  into 
the  library.  Bromfield  was  sitting  there  with  her  father. 
They  were  talking  over  plans  for  the  annual  election  of 
officers  of  the  Bird  Cage  Mining  Company.  Whitford 
was  the  largest  stockholder  and  Bromfield  owned  the 
next  biggest  block.  They  controlled  it  between  them. 

"Dad,  Rob  Roy  bolted  and  Mr.  Lindsay  stopped  him 
before  I  was  thrown." 

Whitford  rose,  the  color  ebbing  from  his  cheeks.  "I've 
always  told  you  that  brute  was  dangerous.  I  '11  offer  him 
for  sale  to-day." 

"And  I've  discovered  that  we  know  the  man  who 
saved  me  from  the  wild  steer  in  Arizona.  It  was  Mr. 
Lindsay." 

"Lindsay!"  Whitford  turned  to  him.  "Is  that  right?" 

"It's  correct." 

Colin  Whitford,  much  moved,  put  a  hand  on  the 
younger  man's  shoulder.  "Son,  you  know  what  I'd  like 
to  tell  you.  I  reckon  I  can't  say  it  right." 

"We'll  consider  it  said,  Mr.  Whitford,"  answered  Clay 
with  his  quick,  boyish  smile.  "No  use  in  spillin'  a  lot  of 
dictionary  words." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  209 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  us?" 

"It  was  nothin*  to  brag  about." 

Bromfield  came  to  time  with  a  thin  word  of  thanks. 
6<We're  all  greatly  in  your  debt,  Mr.  Lindsay." 

As  the  days  passed  the  malicious  jealousy  of  the 
New  York  clubman  deepened  to  a  steady  hatred.  A 
fellow  of  ill-controlled  temper,  his  thin-skinned  van- 
ity writhed  at  the  condition  which  confronted  him. 
He  was  engaged  to  a  girl  who  preferred  another  and 
a  better  man,  one  against  whom  he  had  an  unalter- 
able grudge.  He  recognized  in  the  Westerner  an  eager 
energy,  a  clean-cut  resilience,  and  an  abounding  vital- 
ity he  would  have  given  a  great  deal  to  possess.  His 
own  early  manhood  -had  been  frittered  away  in  futile 
dissipations  and  he  resented  bitterly  the  contrast  be- 
tween himself  and  Lindsay  that  must  continually  be 
present  in  the  mind  of  the  girl  who  had  promised  to 
marry  him.  He  had  many  adventitious  things  to  offer 
her  —  such  advantages  as  modern  civilization  has  made 
desirable  to  hothouse  women  —  but  he  could  not  give 
the  clean,  splendid  youth  she  craved.  It  was  the  price 
he  had  paid  for  many  sybaritic  pleasures  he  had  been 
too  soft  to  deny  himself. 

With  only  a  little  more  than  two  weeks  of  freedom 
before  her,  Beatrice  made  the  most  of  her  days.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  became  a  creature  of  moods. 
The  dominant  ones  were  rebellion,  recklessness,  and 
repentance.  While  Bromfield  waited  and  fumed  she 
rode  and  tramped  with  Clay.  It  was  not  fair  to  her  affi- 
anced lover.  She  knew  that.  But  there  were  times  when 
she  wanted  to  shriek  as  dressmakers  and  costumera 


«10  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

fussed  over  her  and  wore  out  her  jangled  nerves  with 
multitudinous  details.  The  same  hysteria  welled  up  in 
her  occasionally  at  the  luncheons  and  dinners  that  were 
being  given  in  honor  of  her  approaching  marriage. 

It  was  not  logical,  of  course.  She  was  moving  toward 
the  destiny  she  had  chosen  for  herself.  But  there  was 
an  instinct  in  her,  savage  and  primitive,  to  hurt  Brom- 
field  because  she  herself  was  suffering.  In  the  privacy 
of  her  room  she  passed  hours  of  tearful  regret  for  these 
bursts  of  fierce  insurrection. 

Ten  days  before  the  wedding  Beatrice  wounded  his 
vanity  flagrantly.  Clarendon  was  giving  an  informal  tea 
for  her  at  his  rooms.  Half  an  hour  before  the  time  set, 
Beatrice  got  him  on  the  wire  and  explained  that  her 
car  was  stalled  with  engine  trouble  two  miles  from 
Yonkers. 

"I'm  awf'ly  sorry,  Clary,"  she  pleaded.  "We  ought 
not  to  have  come  so  far.  Please  tell  our  friends  I've  been 
delayed,  and  —  I  won't  do  it  again." 

Bromfield  hung  up  the  receiver  in  a  cold  fury.  He  re- 
strained himself  for  the  moment,  made  the  necessary 
explanations,  and  went  through  with  the  tea  somehow. 
But  as  soon  as  his  guests  were  gone  he  gave  himself 
up  to  his  anger.  He  began  planning  a  revenge  on  the 
man  who  no  doubt  was  laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  him. 
He  wanted  the  fellow  exposed,  discredited,  and  humili- 
ated. 

But  how?  Walking  up  and  down  his  room  like  a  caged 
panther,  Bromfield  remembered  that  Lindsay  had 
other  enemies  in  New  York,  powerful  ones  who  would 
be  eager  to  cooperate  with  him  in  bringing  about  the 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  21i 

man's  downfall.  Was  it  possible  for  him  to  work  with 
them  under  cover?  If  so,  in  what  way? 

Clarendon  Bromfield  was  not  a  criminal,  but  a  con- 
ventional member  of  society.  It  was  not  in  his  mind  or 
in  his  character  to  plot  the  murder  or  mayhem  of  his 
rival.  What  he  wanted  was  a  public  disgrace,  one  that 
would  blare  his  name  out  to  the  newspapers  as  a  law- 
breaker. He  wanted  to  sicken  Beatrice  and  her  father 
of  their  strange  infatuation  for  Lindsay. 

A  plan  began  to  unfold  itself  to  him.  It  was  one  which 
called  for  expert  assistance.  He  looked  up  Jerry  Du- 
rand,  got  him  on  the  telephone,  and  made  an  appoint- 
ment to  meet  him  secretly. 


CHAPTER  XXVH 
"NO  VIOLENCE" 

'THE  ex-pugilist  sat  back  in  the  chair,  chewing  an  un- 
Kghted  black  cigar,  his  fishy  eyes  fixed  on  Bromfield. 
Scars  still  decorated  the  colorless  face,  souvenirs  of  a 
battle  in  which  he  had  been  bested  by  a  man  he  hated. 
Durand  had  a  capacity  for  silence.  He  waited  now  for 
this  exquisite  from  the  upper  world  to  tell  his  business. 

Clarendon  discovered  that  he  had  an  unexpected  re- 
pugnance to  doing  this.  A  fastidious  sense  of  the  obliga- 
tions of  class  served  him  for  a  soul  and  the  thing  he  was 
about  to  do  could  not  be  justified  even  in  his  loose  code 
of  ethics.  He  examined  the  ferule  of  his  Malacca  cane 
nervously. 

"I've  come  to  you,  Mr.  Durand,  about — about  a 
fellow  called  Lindsay/' 

The  bulbous  eyes  of  the  other  narrowed.  He  distrusted 
on  principle  all  kid  gloves.  Those  he  had  met  were 
mostly  ambitious  reformers.  Furthermore,  any  stranger 
who  mentioned  the  name  of  the  Arizonan  became 
instantly  an  object  of  suspicion. 

"What  about  him?" 

"I  understand  that  you  and  he  are  not  on  friendly 
terms.  I've  gathered  that  from  what's  been  told  me. 
Am  I  correct?" 

Durand  thrust  out  his  salient  chin.  "Say!  Who  the 
hell  are  you?  What's  eatin'  you?  Whatta  you  want?" 

"I'd  rather  not  tell  my  name." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  tl9 

"Nothin*  doin*.  No  name,  no  business.  That  goes." 

"Very  well.  My  name  is  Bromfield.  This  fellow  Lind- 
say —  gets  in  my  way.  I  want  to  —  to  eliminate  him." 

"Are  you  askin'  me  to  croak  him?" 

"Good  God,  no!  I  don't  want  him  hurt  —  physi- 
cally," cried  Bromfield,  alarmed. 

"Whatta  you  want,  then?"  The  tight-lipped  mouth 
and  the  harsh  voice  called  for  a  showdown. 

"I  want  him  discredited  —  disgraced." 

"Why?" 

"Some  friends  of  mine  are  infatuated  by  him.  I  want 
to  unmask  him  in  a  public  way  so  as  to  disgust  them 
with  him." 

"I'm  hep.  It's  a  girl." 

"We'll  not  discuss  that,"  said  the  clubman  with  a 
touch  of  hauteur.  "As  to  the  price,  if  you  can  arrange 
the  thing  as  I  want  it  done,  I'll  not  haggle  over  terms." 

The  ex-pugilist  listened  sourly  to  Bromfield's  prop- 
osition. He  watched  narrowly  this  fashionably  dressed 
visitor.  His  suspicions  still  stirred,  but  not  so  actively. 
He  was  inclmed  to  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  the  fel- 
low's hatred  of  the  Westerner.  Jealousy  over  a  girl  could 
easily  account  for  it.  Jerry  did  not  intend  to  involve 
himself  until  he  had  made  sure. 

"Whatta  you  want  me  to  do?  Come  clean." 

"Could  we  get  him  into  a  gambling-house,  arrange 
some  disgraceful  mixup  with  a  woman,  get  the  place 
raided  by  the  police,  and  have  the  whole  thing  come 
out  in  the  papers?" 

Jerry's  slitted  eyes  went  off  into  space.  The  thing 
could  be  arranged.  The  trouble  in  getting  Lindsay  was 


«14  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

to  draw  him  into  a  trap  he  could  not  break  through. 
If  Bromfield  could  deliver  his  enemy  into  his  hands, 
Durand  thought  he  would  be  a  fool  not  to  make  the 
most  of  the  chance.  As  for  this  soft-fingered  swell's 
stipulation  against  physical  injury,  that  could  be  ig- 
nored if  the  opportunity  offered. 

"Can  you  bring  this  Lindsay  to  a  gambling-dump? 
Will  he  come  with  you?"  demanded  the  gang  politician. 

"I  think  so.  I'm  not  sure.  But  if  I  do  that,  can  you 
fix  the  rest?" 

"It'll  cost  money." 

"How  much  will  you  need?" 

"A  coupla  thousand  to  start  with.  More  before  I've 
finished.  I  've  got  to  salve  the  cops." 

Bromfield  had  prepared  for  this  contingency.  He 
counted  out  a  thousand  dollars  in  bills  of  large  denom- 
inations. 

"I'll  cut  that  figure  in  two.  Understand.  He's  not 
to  be  hurt.  I  won't  have  any  rough  work." 

"Leave  that  to  me." 

"And  you  've  got  to  arrange  it  so  that  when  the  house 
is  raided  I  escape  without  being  known." 

"I'll  do  that,  too.  Leave  your  address  and  I'll  send 
a  man  up  later  to  wise  you  as  to  the  scheme  when  I 
get  one  fixed  up." 

On  a  sheet  torn  from  his  memorandum  book  Brom- 
field wrote  the  name  of  the  club  which  he  most  fre- 
quented. 

"Don't  forget  the  newspapers.  I  want  them  to  get 
the  story,"  said  the  clubman,  rising. 

"I'll  see  they  cover  the  raid." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  215 

Bromfield,  massaging  a  glove  on  to  his  long  fingers, 
added  another  word  of  caution.  "Don't  slip  up  on  this 
thing.  Lindsay 's  a  long  way  from  being  a  soft  mark." 

"Don't  I  know  it?"  snapped  Purand  viciously. 
"  There  '11  be  no  slip-up  this  time  if  you  do  your  part. 
We'll  get  him,  and  we'll  get  him  right." 

"Without  any  violence,  of  course." 

"Oh,  of  course." 

Was  there  a  covert  but  derisive  jeer  concealed  in  that 
smooth  assent?  Bromfield  did  not  know,  but  he  took 
away  with  him  an  unease  that  disturbed  his  sleep  that 
night. 

Before  the  clubman  was  out  of  the  hotel,  Jerry  was 
snapping  instructions  at  one  of  his  satellites. 

"Tail  that  fellow.  Find  where  he  goes,  who  he  is, 
what  girl  he's  mashed  on,  all  about  him.  See  if  he's 
hooked  up  with  Lindsay.  And  how?  Hop  to  it!  Did  you 
get  a  slant  at  him  as  he  went  out?" 

"Sure  I  did.  He's  my  meat." 

The  tailer  vanished. 

Jerry  stood  at  the  window,  still  sullenly  chewing  his 
tmlighted  cigar,  and  watched  his  late  visitor  and  the 
tailer  lose  themselves  in  the  hurrying  crowds. 

"White-livered  simp.  "No  violence,  Mr.  Durand.' 
Hmp!  Different  here." 

AJI  evil  grin  broke  through  on  the  thin-lipped,  cruel 
{ace. 


CHAPTER  XXVm 

IN  BAD 

WHEN  Bromfield  suggested  to  Clay  with  a  touch  of  stiff- 
ness that  he  would  be  glad  to  show  him  a  side  of  New 
York  night  life  probably  still  unfamiliar  to  him,  the 
cattleman  felt  a  surprise  he  carefully  concealed.  He 
guessed  that  this  was  a  belated  attempt  on  the  part  of 
Miss  Whitford's  fiance  to  overcome  the  palpable  dis- 
like he  had  for  her  friend.  If  so,  the  impulse  that  in- 
spired the  offer  was  a  creditable  one.  Lindsay  had  no 
desire  to  take  in  any  of  the  plague  spots  of  the  city  with 
Bromfield.  Something  about  the  society  man  set  his 
back  up,  to  use  his  own  phrase.  But  because  this  was 
true  he  did  not  intend  to  be  outdone  in  generosity  by  a 
successful  rival.  Promptly  and  heartily  he  accepted  the 
invitation.  If  he  had  known  that  a  note  and  a  card  from 
Jerry  Durand  lay  in  the  vest  pocket  of  his  cynical  host 
while  he  was  holding  out  the  olive  branch,  it  is  probable 
the  Arizonan  would  have  said,  "No,  thank  you,  kind 
sir." 

The  note  mentioned  no  names.  It  said,  "Wednesday, 
at  Haddock's,  11  P.M.  Show  this  card." 

And  to  Maddock's,  on  Wednesday,  at  an  hour  some- 
thing earlier  than  eleven,  the  New  Yorker  led  his  guest 
after  a  call  at  one  or  two  clubs. 

Even  from  the  outside  the  place  had  a  dilapidated 
look  that  surprised  Lindsay.  The  bell  was  of  that  brand 
you  keep  pulling  till  you  discover  it  is  out  of  order. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UF  «17 

Decayed  gentility  marked  the  neighborhood*  though  the 
blank  front  of  the  houses  looked  impeccably  respectable. 

As  a  feeble  camouflage  of  its  real  reason  for  being, 
Maddock's  called  itself  the  "Omnium  Club."  But  when 
Clay  found  how  particular  the  doorkeeper  was  as  to 
those  who  entered  he  guessed  at  once  it  was  a  gainbling- 
house. 

From  behind  a  grating  the  man  peered  at  them  doubt- 
fully. Bromfield  showed  a  card,  and  after  some  hesi- 
tation on  the  part  of  his  inquisitor,  passed  the  exam- 
ination. Toward  Clay  the  doorkeeper  jerked  his  head 
inquiringly. 

"He's  all  right,"  the  clubman  vouched. 

Again  there  was  a  suspicious  and  lengthy  scrutiny. 

The  door  opened  far  enough  to  let  them  slide  into  a 
scantily  furnished  hall.  On  the  first  landing  was  another 
guard,  a  heavy,  brutal-looking  fellow  who  was  no  doubt 
the  "chucker-out."  He  toa  looked  them  over  closely,  but 
after  a  glance  at  the  card  drew  aside  to  let  them  pass. 

Through  a  door  near  the  head  of  the  stairs  they  moved 
into  a  large  room,  evidently  made  from  several  smaller 
ones  with  the  partitions  torn  down  and  the  ceilings  pil- 
lared at  intervals. 

Clay  had  read  about  the  magnificence  of  Canfield's 
in  the  old  days,  and  he  was  surprised  that  one  so  fas- 
tidious as  Bromfield  should  patronize  a  place  so  dingy 
and  so  rough  as  this.  At  the  end  of  one  room  was  a 
marble  mantelpiece  above  which  there  was  a  defaced, 
gilt-frame  mirror.  The  chandeliers,  the  chairs,  the 
wall-paper,  all  suggested  the  same  note  of  one-time 
opulence  worn  to  shabbiness. 


f!8  TOE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

A  game  of  Klondike  was  going.  There  were  two  rou- 
lette wheels,  a  faro  table,  and  one  circle  of  pokef 
players. 

The  cold  eyes  of  a  sleek,  slippery  man  sliding  cards 
out  of  a  faro-box  looked  at  the  Westerner  curiously. 
Among  the  suckers  who  came  to  this  den  of  thieves  to 
be  robbed  were  none  of  Clay's  stamp.  Lindsay  watched 
the  white,  dexterous  hands  of  the  dealer  with  an  honest 
distaste.  All  along  the  border  from  Juarez  to  Calexico 
he  had  seen  just  such  soft,  skilled  fingers  fleecing  those 
who  toiled.  He  knew  the  bloodless,  impassive  face  of 
the  professional  gambler  as  well  as  he  knew  the  anxious, 
reckless  ones  of  his  victims.  His  knowledge  had  told  him 
little  good  of  this  breed  of  parasites  who  preyed  upon 
a  credulous  public. 

The  traffic  of  this  room  was  crooked  business  by  day 
as  well  as  by  night.  A  partition  ran  across  the  rear  of 
the  back  parlor  which  showed  no  opening  but  two  small 
holes  with  narrow  shelves  at  the  bottom.  Back  of  that 
was  the  paraphernalia  of  the  pool-room,  another  device 
to  separate  customers  from  their  money  by  playing  the 
"ponies." 

As  Clay  looked  around  it  struck  him  that  the  per- 
sonnel of  this  gambling-den's  patrons  was  a  singularly 
depressing  one.  All  told  there  were  not  a  dozen  re- 
spectable-looking people  in  the  room.  Most  of  those 
present  were  derelicts  of  life,  the  failures  of  a  great  city 
washed  up  by  the  tide.  Some  were  pallid,  haggard 
wretches  clinging  to  the  vestiges  of  a  prosperity  that 
had  once  been  theirs.  Others  were  hard-faced  ruffians 
from  the  underworld.  Not  a  few  bore  the  marks  of  the 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  219 

drug  victim.  All  of  those  playing  had  a  manner  of  fur- 
tive suspicion.  They  knew  that  if  they  risked  their 
money  the  house  would  rob  them.  Yet  they  played. 

Bromfield  bought  a  small  stack  of  chips  at  the  rou- 
lette table. 

"Won't  you  take  a  whirl  at  the  wheel?"  he  asked 
Lindsay. 

"Thanks,  no,  I  believe  not,"  his  guest  answered. 

The  Westerner  was  a  bit  disgusted  at  his  host's  lack 
of  discrimination.  "Does  he  think  I'm  a  soft  mark 
too?"  he  wondered.  "If  this  is  what  he  calls  high  life 
I've  had  more  than  enough  already." 

His  disgust  was  shared  by  the  clubman.  Bromfield 
had  never  been  in  such  a  dive  before.  His  gambling  had 
been  done  in  gilded  luxury.  While  he  touched  shoulders 
with  this  motley  crew  his  nostrils  twitched  with  fastidi- 
ous disdain.  He  played,  but  his  interest  was  not  in  the 
wheel.  Durand  had  promised  that  there  would  be  women 
and  that  one  of  them  should  be  bribed  to  make  a  claim 
upon  Clay  at  the  proper  moment.  He  had  an  unhappy 
feeling  that  the  gang  politician  had  thrown  him  down 
in  this.  If  so,  what  did  that  mean?  Had  Durand  some 
card  up  his  sleeve?  Was  he  using  him  as  a  catspaw  to 
?ake  in  his  own  chestnuts? 

Clarendon  Bromfield  began  to  weaken.  He  and  Clay 
were  the  only  two  men  in  the  room  in  evening  clothes. 
His  questing  eye  fell  on  tough,  scarred  faces  that  offered 
his  fears  no  reassurance.  Any  one  or  all  of  them  might 
be  agents  of  Durand. 

He  shoved  all  of  his  chips  out,  putting  half  of  them 
on  number  eight  and  the  rest  on  seventeen.  His  object 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

was  to  lose  his  stack  immediately  and  be  free  to  go.  To 
his  annoyance  the  whirling  ball  dropped  into  the  pocket 
labeled  eight. 

"Let's  get  out  of  this  hole,"  he  said  to  Lindsay  in  a 
low  voice.  "I  don't  like  it." 

"Suits  me,"  agreed  the  other. 

As  Bromfield  was  cashing  his  chips  Clay  came  rigidly 
to  attention.  Two  men  had  just  come  into  the  room. 
One  of  them  was  "Slim"  Jim  Collins,  the  other  Gorilla 
Dave.  As  yet  they  had  not  seen  him.  He  did  not  look 
at  them,  but  at  his  host.  There  was  a  question  in  his 
mind  he  wanted  solved.  The  clubman's  gaze  passed  over 
both  the  newcomers  without  the  least  sign  of  recognition. 

"I  did  n't  know  what  this  joint  was  like  or  I'd  never 
have  brought  you,"  apologized  Clarendon.  *'A  friend 
of  mine  told  me  about  it.  He's  got  a  queer  fancy  if  he 
likes  this  frazzled  dive." 

Clay  acquitted  Bromfield  of  conspiracy.  He  must 
have  been  tailed  here  by  Durand's  men.  His  host  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  What  for?  They  could  not  openly 
attack  him. 

"Slim"  Jim's  eyes  fell  on  him.  He  nudged  Dave. 
Both  of  them,  standing  near  the  entrance,  watched 
Lindsay  steadily. 

Some  one  outside  the  door  raised  the  cry,  "The  bulls 
are  comin'." 

Instantly  the  room  leaped  to  frenzied  excitement- 
Men  dived  for  the  doors,  bets  forgotten  and  chips  scat- 
tered over  the  floor.  Chairs  were  smashed  as  they 
charged  over  them,  tables  overturned.  The  unwary 
were  trodden  underfoot. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  221 

Bromfield  went  into  a  panic.  Why  had  he  been  fool 
enough  to  trust  Durand?  No  doubt  the  fellow  would 
ruin  him  as  willingly  as  he  would  Lindsay.  The  raid  was 
fifteen  minutes  ahead  of  schedule  time.  The  ward  poli- 
tician had  betrayed  him.  He  felt  sure  of  it.  All  the  care- 
fully prepared  plans  agreed  upon  he  jettisoned  promptly. 
His  sole  thought  was  to  save  himself,  not  to  trap  his 
rival. 

Lindsay  caught  him  by  the  arm.  "Let's  try  the  back 
room." 

He  followed  Clay,  Durand's  gangmen  at  his  heels. 

The  lights  went  out. 

The  Westerner  tried  the  window.  It  was  heavily 
barred  outside.  He  turned  to  search  for  a  door. 

Brought  up  by  the  partition,  Bromfield  was  whimper- 
ing with  fear  as  he  too  groped  for  a  way  of  escape.  A 
pale  moon  shone  through  the  window  upon  his  evening 
clothes. 

In  the  dim  light  Clay  knew  that  tragedy  impended. 
"Slim"  Jim  had  his  automatic  out. 

"I've  got  you  good,"  the  chauffeur  snarled. 

The  gun  cracked.  Bromfield  bleated  in  frenzied  terror 
as  Clay  dashed  forward.  A  chair  swung  round  in  a 
sweeping  arc.  As  it  descended  the  spitting  of  the  gun 
slashed  through  the  darkness  a  second  time. 

"Slim"  Jim  went  down,  rolled  over,  lay  like  a  log. 

Some  one  dived  for  Lindsay  and  drove  him  against 
the  wall,  pinning  him  by  the  waist.  A  second  figure 
joined  the  first  and  caught  the  cattleman's  wrist. 

Then  the  lights  flashed  on  again.  Clay  saw  that  the 
man  who  had  flung  him  against  the  partition  was  Gor- 


222  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

ilia  Dave.  A  plain-clothes  man  with  a  star  had  twisted 
his  wrist  and  was  clinging  to  it.  Bromfield  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen,  but  an  open  door  to  the  left  showed  that  he 
had  found  at  least  a  temporary  escape. 

A  policeman  came  forward  and  stooped  over  the  fig- 
ure of  the  prostrate  man. 

"Some  one's  croaked  a  guy,"  he  said. 

Gorilla  Dave  spoke  up  quickly.  "This  fellow  did  it. 
With  a  chair.  I  seen  him." 

There  was  a  moment  before  Lindsay  answered  qui- 
etly. "He  shot  twice.  The  gun  must  be  lying  under  him 
where  he  fell." 

Already  men  had  crowded  forward  to  the  scene  of 
the  tragedy,  moved  by  the  morbid  curiosity  a  crowd  has 
in  such  sights.  Two  policemen  pushed  them  back  and 
turned  the  still  body  over.  No  revolver  was  to  be  seen, 

"Anybody  know  who  this  is?"  one  of  the  officers 
asked. 

"Collins  —  'Slim*  Jim,"  answered  big  Dave. 

"Well,  he's  got  his  this  time,"  the  policeman  said. 
"Skull  smashed." 

Clay's  heart  sank.  In  that  noise  of  struggling  men 
and  crashing  furniture  very  likely  the  sound  of  the  shots 
had  been  muffled.  The  revolver  gone,  false  testimony 
against  him,  proof  that  he  had  threatened  Collins  avail- 
able, Clay  knew  that  he  was  in  desperate  straits. 

"There  was  another  guy  here  with  him  in  them  glad 
rags,"  volunteered  one  of  the  gamblers  captured  in  the 
Taid. 

"Who  was  he?"  asked  the  plain-clothes  mao  of  his 
prisoner. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  228 

Clay  was  silent.  He  was  thinking  rapidly.  His  enemies 
had  him  trapped  at  last  with  the  help  of  circumstance. 
Why  bring  Bromfield  into  it?  It  would  mean  trouble  and 
worry  for  Beatrice. 

"Better  speak  up,  young  fellow,  me  lad,"  advised  the 
detective.  "It  won't  help  you  any  to  be  sulky.  You're 
up  against  the  electric  chair  sure." 

The  Arizonan  looked  at  him  with  the  level,  unafraid 
eyes  of  the  hills. 

"I  reckon  I'll  not  talk  till  I'm  ready,"  he  said  vo  his 
slow  drawl. 

The  handcuffs  clicked  on  his  wrists. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

BAD  NEWS 

COLIN  Win**1  >RD  came  into  the  room  carrying  a  morn* 
ing  paper.  His  step  was  hurried,  his  eyes  eager.  When  h€ 
spoke  there  was  the  lift  of  excitement  in  his  voice. 

"Bee,  I've  got  bad  news." 

**Is  the  Bird  Cage  flooded?  "  asked  Beatrice.  "  Or  have 
the  miners  called  a  strike  again?" 

"Worse  than  that.  Lindsay's  been  arrested.  For 
murder." 

The  bottom  fell  out  of  her  heart.  She  caught  at  the 
corner  of  a  desk  to  steady  herself.  "Murder!  It  can't 
be!  Must  be  some  one  of  the  same  name." 

"I  reckon  not,  honey.  It's  Clay  sure  enough.  Lis- 
ten." He  read  the  headlines  of  a  front-page  story. 

"It  can't  be  Clay!  What  would  he  be  doing  in  a 
gambling-dive?"  She  reached  for  the  paper,  but  when 
she  had  it  the  lines  blurred  before  her  eyes.  "Read  it, 
please." 

Whitford  read  the  story  to  the  last  line.  Ixmg  before 
he  had  finished,  his  daughter  knew  the  one  arrested  was 
Clay.  She  sat  down  heavily,  all  the  life  stricken  from 
her  young  body. 

"It's  that  man  Durand.  He's  done  this  and  fas- 
tened it  on  Clay.  We'll  find  a  way  to  prove  Clay  did 
n't  do  it." 

"Maybe,  in  self-defense — " 

Beatrice  pushed  back  her  father's  hesitant  sugges- 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  225 

tion,  and  even  while  she  did  it  a  wave  of  dread  swept 
over  her.  The  dead  man  was  the  same  criminal  "Slim" 
Jim  Collins  whom  the  cattleman  had  threatened  in 
order  to  protect  the  Millikan  girl.  The  facts  that  the 
man  had  been  struck  down  by  a  chair  and  that  her 
friend  claimed,  according  to  the  paper,  that  the  gun- 
man had  med  two  shots,  buttressed  the  solution  of- 
fered by  Whitford.  But  the  horror  of  it  was  too  strong 
for  her.  Against  reason  her  soul  protested  that  Clay 
could  not  have  killed  a  man.  It  was  too  horrible,  too 
ghastly,  that  through  the  faults  of  others  he  should  be 
put  in  such  a  situation. 

And  why  should  her  friend  be  in  such  a  place  unless 
he  had  been  trapped  by  the  enemies  who  were  deter- 
mined to  ruin  him?  She  knew  he  had  a  contempt  for 
men  who  wasted  their  energies  in  futile  dissipations. 
He  was  too  clean,  too  much  a  son  of  the  wind-swept 
desert,  to  care  anything  about  the  low  pleasures  of  in- 
decent and  furtive  vice.  He  was  the  last  man  she  knew 
likely  to  be  found  enjoying  a  den  of  this  sort. 

"Dad,  I'm  going  to  him,"  she  announced  with  crisp 
decision. 

Her  father  offered  no  protest.  His  impulse,  too,  was 
to  stand  by  the  friend  in  need.  He  had  no  doubt  Clay 
had  killed  the  man,  but  he  had  a  sure  conviction  it 
had  been  done  in  self-defense. 

"We'll  get  the  best  lawyers  in  New  York  for  him, 
honey,"  he  said.  "Nobody  will  slip  anything  over  on 
Lindsay  if  we  can  help  it." 

"Will  they  let  us  see  him?  Or  shall  we  have  to  get 
permission  from  some  one?" 


286  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"We'll  have  to  get  an  order.  I  know  the  district  at- 
torney. He'll  do  what  he  can  for  me,  but  maybe  it'll 
take  time." 

Beatrice  rose,  strong  again  and  resilient.  Her  voice 
was  vibrant  with  confidence.  "Then  after  you've  called 
up  the  district  attorney,  we'll  drive  to  Clay's  flat  in 
Harlem  and  find  out  from  Johnnie  what  he  can  tell  us. 
Perhaps  he  knows  what  Clay  was  doing  in  that  place 
they  raided." 

It  was  not  necessary  to  go  to  the  Runt.  He  came  to 
them.  As  Beatrice  and  her  father  stepped  into  the  car 
Johnnie  and  Kitty  appeared  round  the  corner.  Both 
of  them  had  the  news  of  a  catastrophe  written  on  their 
faces.  A  very  little  encouragement  and  they  would  be 
in  tears. 

"Ain't  it  tur'ble,  Miss  Beatrice?  They  done  got  Clay 
at  last.  After  he  made  'em  all  look  like  plugged  nickels 
they  done  fixed  it  so  he  '11  mebbe  go  to  the  electric  chair 
and—" 

"Stop  that  nonsense,  Johnnie,"  ordered  Miss  Whit- 
ford  sharply,  a  pain  stabbing  her  heart  at  his  words. 
"Don't  begin  whining  already.  We've  got  to  see  him 
through.  Buck  up  and  tell  me  what  you  know." 

"That's  right,  Johnnie,"  added  the  mining  man. 
"You  and  Kitty  quit  looking  like  the  Atlantic  Ocean 
in  distress.  We  Ve  got  to  endure  the  grief  and  get  busy. 
We'll  get  Lindsay  out  of  this  hole  all  right." 

"You're  dawg-goned  whistlin'.  Y'betcha,  by  jollies!" 
agreed  the  Runt,  immensely  cheered  by  Whitford's 
confidence.  "We  been  drug  in  to  this  an'  we'll  sure  hop 
to  it." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUNIXUP  227 

"When  did  you  see  Clay  last?  How  did  he  come  to 
be  in  that  gambling-house?  Did  he  say  anything  to  you 
about  going  there?  "  The  girl's  questions  tumbled  over 
each  other  in  her  hurry. 

"Well,  ma'am,  it  must  'a'  been  about  nine  o'clock  that 
Clay  he  left  last  night.  I  recollect  because  — ' 

"It  does  n't  matter  why.  Where  was  he  going?" 

"To  meet  Mr.  Bromfield  at  his  club,"  said  Kitty. 

"Mr.  Bromfield!"  cried  Beatrice,  surprised.  "Are 
you  sure?" 

"Tha's  what  Clay  s&id,"  corroborated  the  hus- 
band. "Mr.  Bromfield  invited  him.  We  both  noticed  it 
because  it  seemed  kinda  funny,  him  and  Clay  not 
bein'  —  " 

"Johnnie,"  his  wife  reproved,  mindful  of  the  rela- 
tionship between  this  young  woman  and  the  clubman. 

"Did  he  say  which  club?" 

"Seems  to  me  he  did  n't,  not  as  I  remember.  How 
about  that,  Kitty?" 

"No,  I'm  sure  he  didn't.  He  said  he  would  n't  be 
back  early.  So  we  went  to  bed.  We  s'posed  after  we 
got  up  this  mo'nin'  he  was  sleepin'  in  his  room  till  the 
paper  come  and  I  looked  at  it."  Johnnie  gave  way  to 
lament.  "I  told  him  awhile  ago  we  had  orto  go  back  to 
Arizona  or  they'd  git  him.  And  now  they've  gone  and 
done  it  sure  enough." 

Keen  as  a  hawk  on  the  hunt,  Beatrice  turned  to  her 
father  quickly.  "I'm  going  to  get  Clarendon  on  the 
'phone.  He'll  know  all  about  it." 

"Why  will  he  know  all  about  it?" 

"Because  he  was  with  Clay.  He's  tte  man  the  paper 


228  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

says  the  police  are  looking  for  —  the  man  with  Clay 
when  it  happened." 

Her  father's  eyes  lit.  "That's  good  guessing,  Bee." 

It  was  her  fiance's  man  who  answered  the  girl's  call. 
She  learned  that  Clarendon  was  still  in  his  room. 

"He's  quite  sick  this  morning,  Miss,"  the  valet 
added. 

"Tell  him  I  want  to  talk  with  him.  It's  important.*' 

"I  don't  think,  Miss,  that  he's  able  — " 

"Will  you  please  tell  him  what  I  say?" 

Presently  the  voice  of  Bromfield,  thin  and  worried, 
came  to  her  over  the  wire.  "I'm  ill,  Bee.  Absolutely 
done  up.  I  —  I  can't  talk." 

"Tell  me  about  Clay  Lindsay.  Were  you  with  him 
when  —  when  it  happened?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause  before  the  answer 
came. 

"With  him?"  She  could  feel  his  terror  throbbing  over 
the  wire.  Though  she  could  not  see  him,  she  knew  her 
question  had  stricken  him  white.  "With  him  where?" 

"At  this  gambling-house  —  Maddock's?" 

"No,  I  —  I  —  Bee,  I  tell  you  I'm  ill." 

"He  went  out  last  night  to  join  you  at  your  club.  I 
know  that.  When  did  you  see  him  last?" 

"I  —  we  did  n't  —  he  did  n't  come." 

"Then  did  n't  you  see  him  at  all?" 

There  was  another  pause,  significant  and  telling, 
followed  by  a  quavering  "No-o." 

"  Clary,  I  want  to  see  you  —  right  away." 

"I'm  ill,  I  tell  you  —  can't  leave  my  bed."  He  gave 
a  groan  too  genuine  to  doubt. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  229 

Beatrice  hung  up  the  receiver.  Her  eyes  sparked.  For 
all  her  slimness,  she  looked  both  competent  and  dan- 
gerous. 

"What  does  he  say?"  her  father  asked. 

"Says  he  did  n't  meet  Clay  at  all  —  that  he  did  n't 
show  up.  Dad,  there's  something  wrong  about  it. 
Clary's  in  a  panic  about  something.  I'm  going  to  see 
him,  no  matter  whether  he  can  leave  his  room  or  not." 

Whitford  looked  dubious.  "I  don't  see  —  >: 

"Well,  I  do,"  his  daughter  cut  him  off  decisively. 
"We're  going  to  his  rooms  —  now.  Why  not?  He  says 
he's  ill.  All  right.  I'm  engaged  to  be  married  to  him  and 
I've  a  right  to  see  how  ill  he  is." 

"What's  in  your  noodle,  honey?  You've  got  some 
kind  of  a  suspicion.  What  is  it?  " 

"I  think  Clary  knows  something.  My  notion  is  that 
he  was  at  Maddock's  and  that  he's  in  a  blue  funk  for 
fear  he'll  be  found  and  named  as  an  accessory.  I'm 
going  to  find  out  all  he  can  tell  me." 

"But  —  " 

She  looked  at  her  father  directly,  a  deep  meaning  in 
the  lovely  eyes.  A  little  tremor  ran  through  her  body. 
"Dad,  I'm  going  to  save  Clay.  That's  the  only  thing 
that  counts." 

Her  words  were  an  appeal,  a  challenge.  They  told  him 
that  her  heart  belonged  to  the  friend  in  prison,  and 
they  carried  him  back  somehow  to  the  hour  when  the 
nurse  first  laid  her,  a  tiny  baby,  in  his  arms. 

His  heart  was  very  tender  to  her.  "  Whatever  you  say. 
sweetheart." 


CHAPTER  XXX 
BEE  MAKES  A  MORNING  CALL 

THEIR  chauffeur  broke  the  speed  laws  getting  them  to 
the  apartment  house  for  bachelors  where  Bromfield 
lived. 

His  valet  for  once  was  caught  off  guard  when  he 
opened  the  door  to  them.  Beatrice  was  inside  before 
he  could  quite  make  up  his  mind  how  best  to  meet  this 
frontal  attack. 

"We  came  to  see  Mr.  Bromfield,"  she  said. 

"Sorry,  Miss.  He's  really  quite  ill.  The  doctor 
says  — " 

"I'm  Miss  Whitford.  We're  engaged  to  be  married. 
It's  very  important  that  I  see  him." 

"Yes,  Miss,  I  know." 

The  man  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  his  master 
wanted  of  all  things  to  avoid  a  meeting  with  her.  For 
some  reason  or  other,  Bromfield  was  in  a  state  of  col- 
lapse this  morning  the  valet  could  not  understand.  The 
man's  business  was  to  protect  him  until  he  had  recov- 
ered. But  he  could  not  flatly  turn  his  master's  fiancee 
out  of  the  apartment.  His  eye  turned  to  Whitford  and 
found  no  help  there.  He  fell  back  on  the  usual  device  of 
servants. 

"I  don't  really  think  he  can  see  you,  Miss.  The  doc- 
tor has  specially  told  me  to  guard  against  any  excite- 
ment. But  I'll  ask  Mr.  Bromfield  if  —  if  he  feels  up 
to  it." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  231 

The  valet  passed  into  what  was  evidently  a  bedroom 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  There  was  a  faint  mur- 
niur  of  voices. 

"I'm  going  in  now,"  Beatrice  announced  abruptly  to 
her  father. 

She  moved  forward  quickly,  before  Whitford  could 
stop  her,  whipped  open  the  door,  and  stepped  into  the 
room.  Her  father  followed  her  reluctantly. 

Clarendon,  in  a  frogged  dressing-gown,  lay  propped 
up  by  pillows.  Beside  the  bed  was  a  tray,  upon  which 
was  a  decanter  of  whiskey  and  a  siphon  of  soda.  His 
figure  seemed  to  have  fallen  together  and  his  seamed 
face  was  that  of  an  old  man.  But  it  was  the  eyes  that 
held  her.  They  were  full  of  stark  terror.  The  look  in 
them  took  the  girl's  breath.  They  told  her  that  he  had 
undergone  some  great  shock. 

He  shivered  at  sight  of  her. 

"What  is  it,  Clary?'*  she  cried,  moving  toward  him. 
"Tell  me  —  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"I  —  I'm  ill."  He  quaked  it  from  a  burning  throat. 

"You  were  all  right,  yesterday.  Why  are  you  ill  now?  '* 

He  groaned  unhappily. 

"You're  going  to  tell  me  everything  —  everything" 

His  fascinated,  frightened  eyes  clung  to  this  straight, 
slim  girl  whose  look  stabbed  into  him  and  shook  his 
soul.  Why  had  she  come  to  trouble  him  this  morning 
while  he  was  cowering  in  fear  of  the  men  who  would 
break  in  to  drag  him  away  to  prison? 

"Nothing  to  tell,"  he  got  out  with  a  gulp. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have.  Are  you  ill  because  of  what  hap- 
pened at  Maddock's?" 


232  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

He  tried  to  pull  himself  together,  to  stop  the  chat- 
tering of  his  teeth. 

"N-nonsense,  my  dear.  I'm  done  up  completely.  De- 
lighted to  see  you  and  all  that,  but  —  Won't  you  go 
home?"  His  appealing  eyes  passed  to  Whitford.  "Can't 
you  take  her  away?  " 

"No,  I  won't  go  home  —  and  he  can't  take  me 
away."  Her  resolution  was  hard  as  steel.  It  seemed  to 
crowd  inexorably  upon  the  shivering  wretch  in  the 
frogged  gown.  "What  is  it  you're  so  afraid  to  tell  me, 
Clarendon?" 

He  quailed  at  her  thrust.  "What  —  what  do  you 
mean?" 

She  knew  now,  beyond  any  question  or  doubt,  that 
he  had  been  present  when  "Slim"  Jim  Collins  had  been 
killed.  He  had  seen  a  man's  life  snuffed  out,  was  still 
trembling  for  fear  he  might  be  called  in  as  a  party  to 
the  crime. 

"You'd  better  tell  me  before  it's  too  late.  How 
did  you  and  Clay  Lindsay  come  to  go  to  that  den?  " 

"We  went  out  to  —  to  see  the  town." 

"But  why  to  that  place?  Are  you  in  the  habit  of 
going  there?" 

He  shuddered.  "Never  was  there  before.  I  had  a 
card.  Some  one  gave  it  to  me.  So  we  went  in  for  a  few 
minutes  —  to  see  what  it  was  like.  The  police  raided 
the  place."  He  dropped  his  sentences  reluctantly,  as 
though  -they  were  being  forced  from  him  in  pain. 

"Well?" 

"Everybody  tried  to  escape.  The  lights  went  out.  I 
found  a  back  door  and  got  away.  Then  I  came  home." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  £33 

"What  about  Clay?" 

Bromfield  told  the  truth.  "I  did  n't  see  him  after  the 
fights  went  out,  except  for  a  moment.  He  was  running 
at  the  man  with  the  gun." 

"You  saw  the  gun?" 

He  nodded,  moistened  his  dry  tips  with  the  tip  of 
his  tongue. 

"And  the  —  the  shooting?  Did  you  see  that?" 

Twice  the  words  he  tried  to  say  faded  on  his  tips. 
At  last  he  managed  a  "No." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  —  found  a  door  and  escaped." 

"You  must  have  heard  shooting." 

"I  heard  shots  as  I  ran  down  the  stairs.  This  morn- 
ing I  read  that  —  that  a  man  was  -  "  He  swallowed 
down  a  lump  and  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

"Then  you  know  that  Clay  is  accused  of  killing  this 
man,  and  that  the  police  are  looking  for  you  because 
you  were  with  him." 

"Yes."  His  answer  was  a  dry  whisper. 

"Did  you  see  this  man  Collins  in  the  room?" 

"No.  I  should  n't  know  him  if  I  saw  him." 

"But  you  heard  shots.  You're  sure  of  that!"  cried 
Beatrice. 

"Y-yes." 

The  girl  turned  triumphantly  to  her  father.  "He  saw 
the  gun  and  he  heard  shots.  That  proves  self-defense 
at  the  worst.  They  were  shooting  at  Clay  when  he 
struck  with  the  chair  —  if  he  did.  Clarendon's  testi- 
mony will  show  that." 

"My  testimony!"  screamed  Bromfield.  "My  God, 


*34  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

do  you  think  I  'm  going  to  —  to  —  go  into  court?  They 
would  claim  I  —  I  was  —  " 

She  waited,  but  he  did  not  finish.  "Clay's  life  may 
depend  upon  it,  and  of  course  you'll  tell  the  truth,"  she 
said  quietly. 

"Maybe  I  didn't  hear  shots,"  he  hedged.  "Maybe 
it  was  furniture  falling.  There  was  a  lot  of  noise  of 
people  stamping  and  fighting." 

"You  —  heard  —  shots." 

The  eyes  of  the  girl  were  deadly  weapons.  They  glit- 
tered like  unscabbarded  steel.  In  them  was  a  contained 
fire  that  awed  him. 

He  threw  out  his  hand  in  a  weak,  impotent  gesture 
of  despair.  "My  God,  how  did  I  ever  come  to  get  into 
such  a  mix-up?  It  will  ruin  me." 

"How  did  you  come  to  go?"  she  asked. 

"  He  wanted  to  see  New  York.  I  suppose  I  had  some 
notion  of  taking  him  slumming." 

Beatrice  went  up  to  him  and  looked  straight  into  his 
eyes.  "Then  testify  to  that  in  court.  It  won't  hurt  you 
any.  Go  down  to  the  police  and  say  you  have  read  in 
the  paper  that  they  want  you.  Tell  the  whole  truth.  And 
Clary  —  don't  weaken.  Stick  to  your  story  about  the 
shots."  Her  voice  shook  a  little.  "Clay's  life  is  at  stake. 
Remember  that." 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  safe  to  go  to  the  po- 
lice?" he  asked  doubtfully. 

Whitford  spoke  up.  "That's  the  only  square  and 
safe  thing  to  do,  Bromfield.  They'll  find  out  who  you 
are,  of  course.  If  you  go  straight  to  them  you  draw  the 
sting  from  their  charge  that  you  were  an  accomplice 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  235 

of  Clay.  Don't  lose  your  nerve.  You'll  go  through  with 
flying  colors.  When  a  man  has  done  nothing  wrong  he 
need  n't  be  afraid." 

"I  dare  say  you  're  right," agreed  Bromfield  miserably. 

The  trouble  was  that  Whitford  was  arguing  from 
false  premises.  He  was  assuming  that  Clarendon  was  an 
innocent  man,  whereas  the  clubman  knew  just  how 
guilty  he  was.  Back  of  the  killing  lay  a  conspiracy 
which  might  come  to  light  during  the  investigation. 
He  dared  not  face  the  police.  His  conscience  was  not 
clean  enough. 

"Of  course  Dad's  right.  It's  the  only  way  to  save 
your  reputation,"  Beatrice  cried.  "I'm  not  going  to 
leave  you  till  you  promise  to  go  straight  down  there 
to  headquarters.  If  you  don't  you'll  be  smirched  for 
life  —  and  you  'd  be  doing  something  absolutely  dis- 
honorable." 

He  came  to  time  with  a  heart  of  heavy  dread.  "AJU 
right,  Bee.  I'll  go,"  he  promised.  "It's  an  awful  mess, 
but  I've  got  to  go  through  with  it,  I  suppose." 

"Of  course  you  have,"  she  said  with  complete  con- 
viction. "You're  not  a  quitter,  and  you  can't  hide  here 
like  a  criminal." 

"We'll  have  to  be  moving,  Bee,"  her  father  reminded 
her.  "You  know  we  have  an  appointment  to  meet  the 
district  attorney." 

Beatrice  nodded.  With  a  queer  feeling  of  repulsion 
she  patted  her  fiance's  cheek  with  her  soft  hand  and 
whispered  a  word  of  comfort  to  him. 

"Buck  up,  old  boy.  It  won't  be  half  as  bad  as  yqu 
think.  Nobody  is  going  to  blame  you." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

They  were  shown  out  by  the  valet. 

"You  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  Bromfield,  honey," 
Whitford  told  his  daughter  after  they  had  reentered 
their  car.  "He's  a  parlor  man.  That's  the  way  he's 
been  brought  up.  Never  did  a  hard  day's  work  in  his 
life.  Everything  made  easy  for  him.  If  he'd  ever  ridden 
out  a  blizzard  like  Clay  or  stuck  it  out  in  a  mine  for  a 
week  without  food  after  a  cave-in,  he  would  n't  balk 
on  the  job  before  him.  But  he's  soft.  And  he's  afraid 
of  his  reputation.  That's  natural,  I  suppose." 

Beatrice  knew  he  was  talking  to  save  her  feelings. 
"You  don't  need  to  make  excuses  for  him,  Dad,"  she 
answered  gently,  with  a  wry  smile.  "I've  got  to  give 
up.  I  don't  think  I  can  go  through  with  it." 

"You  mean  —  marry  him?" 

"Yes."  She  added,  with  a  flare  of  passionate  scorn 
of  herself:  "I  deserve  what  I've  got.  I  knew  all  the  time 
I  did  n't  love  him.  It  was  sheer  selfishness  in  me  to 
accept  him.  I  wanted  what  he  had  to  give  me." 

Her  father  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  "I'm  glad 
you  see  that,  Bee.  I  don't  think  he's  good  enough  for 
you.  But  I  don't  know  anybody  that  is,  come  to  that." 

"That's  just  your  partiality.  I'm  a  mean  little 
bounder  or  I  never  should  have  led  him  on,"  the  girl 
answered  in  frank  disgust. 

Both  of  them  felt  smirched.  The  behavior  of  Brom- 
field had  been  a  reflection  on  them.  They  had  picked 
him  for  a  thoroughbred,  and  he  had  failed  them  at  the 
first  test. 

"Well,  I  have  n't  been  proud  of  you  in  that  affair,** 
conceded  Colin.  "It  didn't  seem  like  my  girl  to  —  M 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  2S7 

He  broke  off  in  characteristic  fashion  to  berate  her  en- 
vironment. "It's  this  crazy  town.  The  spirit  of  it  gets 
into  a  person  and  he  accepts  its  standards.  Let's  get 
away  from  here  for  a  while,  sweetheart." 

"After  Clay  is  out  of  trouble,  Dad,  I'll  go  with  you 
back  to  Denver  or  to  Europe  or  anywhere  you  say." 

"That's  a  deal,"  he  told  her  promptly.  "We'll  stay 
till  after  the  annual  election  of  the  company  and  then 
go  off  on  a  honeymoon  together,  Bee." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

INTO  THE  HANDS  OF  HIS  ENEMY 

DUEAND  waited  alone  for  word  to  be  flashed  him  that 
the  debt  he  owed  Clay  Lindsay  had  been  settled  in  full. 
A  telephone  lay  on  the  desk  close  at  hand  and  beside 
it  was  a  watch.  The  second-hand  ticked  its  way  jerkily 
round  and  round  the  circle.  Except  for  that  the  stillness 
weighed  on  him  unbearably.  He  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  chewing  nervously  the  end  of  an  unlit  cigar.  For 
the  good  tidings  which  he  was  anxious  to  hear  was  news 
of  the  death  of  the  strong  young  enemy  who  had  beaten 
him  at  every  turn. 

Why  did  n't  Collins  get  to  the  telephone?  Was  it 
possible  that  there  had  been  a  slip-up,  that  Lindsay 
had  again  broken  through  the  trap  set  for  him?  Had 
"Slim's"  nerve  failed  him?  Or  had  Bromfield  been 
unable  to  bring  the  victim  to  the  slaughter? 

His  mind  went  over  the  details  again.  The  thing  had 
been  well  planned  even  to  the  unguarded  door  through 
which  Collins  was  to  escape.  In  the  darkness  "Slim'* 
could  do  the  job,  make  his  getaway  along  with  Dave, 
and  be  safe  from  any  chance  of  identification.  Brom« 
field,  to  save  his  own  hide,  would  keep  still.  If  he 
did  n't,  Durand  was  prepared  to  shift  the  murder 
upon  his  shoulders. 

The  minute-hand  of  the  watch  passed  down  from 
the  quarter  to  the  half  and  from  the  half  to  the  three 
quarters.  Still  the  telephone  bell  did  not  ring.  The  gang 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  239 

leader  began  to  sweat  blood.  Had  some  one  bungled 
after  all  the  care  with  which  he  had  laid  his  plans? 

A  door  slammed  below.  Hurried  footsteps  sounded 
on  the  stair  treads.  Into  the  room  burst  a  man. 

"'Slim'  's  been  croaked,"  he  blurted. 

"What!"  Durand's  eyes  dilated. 

"At  Haddock's." 

"Who  did  it?" 

"De  guy  he  was  to  gun." 

"Lindsay." 

"Dat'sde  fellow." 

"Did  the  bulls  get  Lindsay?" 

"Pinched  him  right  on  de  spot." 

"Gun 'Slim,' did  he?" 

"Nope.  Knocked  him  cold  wit'  a  chair.  Cracked  his 
skull." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"He'll  never  be  deader.  Dave  grabbed  this  sucker 
Lindsay  and  yelled  that  he  done  it.  The  bulls  pinched 
him  like  I  said  right  there." 

"Did  it  happen  in  the  dark?" 

"  Sure  as  you  're  a  foot  high.  My  job  was  dousin*  the 
glims,  and  I  done  it  right." 

"What  about  'Slim'?  Was  he  shooting  when  he  got 
it?" 

The  other  man  shook  his  head.  "This  Lindsay  man 
claims  he  was.  I  talked  wit'  a  bull  afterward.  Dey 
did  n't  find  no  gun  on  'Slim.'  The  bull  says  there  was 
no  gun-play." 

"What  became  of  'Slim's'  gun?" 

"Search  me." 


£40  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Durand  slammed  a  big  fist  exultantly  down  on  the 
desk.  "Better  than  the  way  I  planned  it.  If  the  gun's 
gone,  I'll  frame  Lindsay  for  the  chair.  It's  Salt  Creek 
for  his." 

He  lost  no  time  in  getting  into  touch  with  Gorilla 
Dave,  who  was  under  arrest  at  the  station  house.  From 
bim  he  learned  the  story  of  the  killing  of  Collins.  One 
whispered  detail  of  it  filled  him  with  malicious  glee. 

"The  boob!  He'll  go  to  the  death  chair  sure  if  I  can 
frame  him.  We're  lucky  Bromfield  ran  back  into  the 
little  room.  Up  in  front  a  dozen  guys  might  have  seen 
the  whole  play  even  in  the  dark." 

Durand  spent  the  night  strengthening  the  web  he 
had  spun  to  destroy  his  enemy.  He  passed  to  and  fro 
among  those  who  had  been  arrested  in  the  raid  and  he 
arranged  the  testimony  of  some  of  them  to  suit  his  case. 
More  than  one  of  the  men  caught  in  the  dragnet  of  the 
police  was  willing  to  see  the  affray  from  the  proper  angle 
in  exchange  for  protection  from  prosecution. 

After  breakfast  Durand  went  to  the  Tombs,  where 
Clay  had  been  transferred  at  daybreak. 

"You  needn't  bring  the  fellow  here,"  he  told  the 
warden.  "I '11  go  right  to  his  cage  and  see  him.  I  wantta 
have  a  talk  with  him." 


CHAPTER  XXXH 

MR.  LINDSAY  RECEIVES 

BETWEEN  two  guards  Clay  climbed  the  iron  steps  to 
an  upper  tier  of  cages  at  the  Tombs.  He  was  put  into  a 
cell  which  held  two  beds,  one  above  the  other,  as  in  the 
cabin  of  an  ocean  liner.  By  the  side  of  the  bunks  was  a 
narrow  space  just  long  enough  for  a  man  to  take  two 
steps  in  the  same  direction. 

An  unshaven  head  was  lifted  in  the  lower  bunk  to 
see  why  the  sleep  of  its  owner  was  being  disturbed. 

"I've  brought  you  a  cell  mate,  Shiny,"  explained  one 
of  the  guards.  "You  want  to  be  civil  to  him.  He's  just 
croaked  a  friend  of  yours." 

"For  de  love  o'  Gawd.  Who  did  he  croak?" 

"'Slim'  Jim  Collins.  Cracked  him  one  on  the  bean 
and  that  was  a-plenty.  Hope  you  '11  enjoy  each  other's 
society,  gents."  The  guard  closed  the  door  and  de- 
parted. 

"Is  that  right?  Did  youse  do  up  'Slim,'  or  was  he 
kiddin'  me?" 

"I  don't  reckon  we'll  discuss  that  subject,"  said  Clay 
blandly,  but  with  a  note  of  finality  in  his  voice. 

"No  offense,  boss.  It's  an  honor  to  have  so  distin- 
guished a  gent  for  a  cell  pal.  For  that  matter  I  ain't  no 
cheap  rat  myself.  Dey  pinched  me  for  shovin*  de  queer. 
I'd  ought  to  get  fifteen  years,"  he  said  proudly. 

This  drew  a  grin  from  Lindsay,  though  not  exactly 


24fc  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

a  merry  one.  "If  you're  anxious  for  a  long  term  you 
can  have  some  of  mine,"  he  told  the  counterfeiter. 

"Maybe  youse'll  go  up  Salt  Creek,"  said  Shiny  hope- 
fully. 

Afraid  the  allusion  might  not  be  understood,  he 
thoughtfully  explained  that  this  was  the  underworld 
term  for  the  electric  chair. 

Clay  made  no  further  comment.  He  found  the  theme 
a  gruesome  one. 

"Anyhow,  I'm  glad  dey  did  n't  put  no  hoister  nor 
damper-getter  wit'  me.  I'm  partickler  who  I  meet.  De 
whole  prof esh  is  gettin*  run  down  at  de  heel.  I  'm  dead 
sick  of  rats  who  can't  do  nothin*  but  lift  pokes,"  con- 
cluded the  occupant  of  the  lower  berth  with  disgust. 

Though  Clay's  nerves  were  of  the  best  he  did  very 
little  sleeping  that  night.  He  was  in  a  grave  situation. 
Even  if  he  had  a  fair  field  his  plight  would  be  serious 
enough.  But  he  guessed  that  during  the  long  hours  of 
darkness  Durand  was  busy  weaving  a  net  of  false  evi- 
dence from  which  he  could  scarcely  disentangle  him- 
self. Unless  Bromfield  came  forward  at  once  as  a  wit- 
ness for  him,  his  case  would  be  hopeless  —  and  Clay 
suspected  that  the  clubman  would  prove  only  a  broken 
reed  as  a  support.  The  fellow  was  selfish  to  the  coret 
He  had  not,  in  the  telling  Western  phrase,  the  guts  to 
go  through.  He  would  take  the  line  of  least  resistance. 

Beatrice  was  in  his  thoughts  a  great  deal.  What  would 
she  think  of  him  when  the  news  came  that  he  was  a 
murderer,  caught  by  the  police  in  a  den  of  vice  where 
he  had  no  business  to  be?  Some  deep  instinct  of  his  soul 
told  him  that  she  would  brush  through  the  evidence 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  £48 

to  the  essential  truth.  She  had  failed  him  once.  She 
would  never  do  it  again.  He  felt  sure  of  that. 

The  gray  morning  broke,  and  brought  with  it  the 
steaming  smell  of  prison  cooking,  the  sounds  of  the 
caged  underworld,  the  sense  of  life  all  around  him 
dwarfed  and  warped  to  twisted  moral  purposes.  A 
warden  came  with  breakfast — a  lukewarm,  muddy  liquid 
he  called  coffee  and  a  stew  in  which  potatoes  and  bits 
of  fat  beef  bobbed  like  life  buoys  —  and  Clay  ate  heart  • 
ily  while  his  cell  mate  favored  him,  between  gulps,  with 
a  monologue  on  ethics,  politics,  and  the  state  of  soci- 
ety, as  these  related  especially  to  Shiny  the  Shover. 
Lindsay  was  given  to  understand  that  the  whole  world 
was  "on  de  spud,"  but  the  big  crooks  had  fixed  the  laws 
so  that  they  could  wear  diamonds  instead  of  stripes. 

Presently  a  guard  climbed  the  iron  stairway  with  a 
visitor  and  led  the  way  along  the  deck  outside  the  tier 
of  cells  where  Clay  had  been  put. 

"He's  in  seventy-four,  Mr.  Durand,"  the  man  said 
as  he  approached.  "I'll  have  to  beat  it.  Come  back  to 
the  office  when  you  're  ready." 

The  ex-pugilist  had  come  to  gloat  over  him.  Clay 
knew  it  at  once.  His  pupils  narrowed. 

He  was  lying  on  the  bed,  his  supple  body  stretched 
at  graceful  ease.  Not  by  the  lift  of  an  eyelid  did  he  rec- 
ognize the  presence  of  his  enemy. 

Durand  stood  in  front  of  the  cell,  hands  in  pockets, 
the  inevitable  unlit  black  cigar  in  his  mouth.  On  his 
face  was  a  sneer  of  malevolent  derision. 

Shiny  the  Shover  bustled  forward,  all  complaisance. 
"Pleased  to  meet  youse,  Mr.  Durand." 


£44  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-DP 

The  gang  politician's  insolent  eyes  went  up  and  down 
him.  "I  did  n't  come  to  see  you" 

'  'S  all  right.  Glad  to  see  youse,  anyhow,"  the  counter- 
feit passer  went  on  obsequiously.  "Some  day,  when 
you've  got  time  I'd  like  to  talk  wit'  youse  about  get- 
tin'  some  fall  money." 

"Nothin*  doin',  Shiny.  I'm  not  backin'  you,"  said 
Jerry  coldly.  "You've  got  to  go  up  the  river." 

"  Youse  promised  —  ' 

"Aw,  what  the  hell's  eatin'  you?" 

Shiny's  low  voice  carried  a  plaintive  whine.  "If  you'd 
speak  to  de  judge  — " 

"Forget  it."  Durand  brushed  the  plea  away  with  a 
motion  of  his  hand.  "It's  your  cell  pal  I've  come  to 
take  a  look  at  —  the  one  who's  goin'  to  the  chair." 

With  one  lithe  movement  Clay  swung  down  to  the 
floor.  Hs  sauntered  forward  to  the  grating,  his  level 
gaze  full  on  the  ward  boss. 

"Shiny,  this  fellow's  rotten,"  he  said  evenly  and  im- 
personally. "  He's  not  only  a  crook,  but  he's  a  crooked 
crook.  He'd  throw  down  his  own  brother  if  it  paid  him  " 

Durand's  cruel  lips  laughed.  "Your  pal's  a  little  wor- 
ried this  mornin*,  Shiny.  He  ain't  slept  much.  You 
see  the  bulls  got  him  right.  It's  the  death  chair  for  hin 
and  no  lifeboat  in  sight." 

Clay  leaned  against  the  bars  negligently.  He  spoke 
with  a  touch  of  lazy  scorn.  "See  those  scars  on  his  face, 
Shiny  —  the  one  on  the  cheek  bone  and  the  other  above 
the  eye.  Ask  him  where  he  got  'em  and  how." 

Jerry  cursed.  He  broke  into  a  storm  of  threats,  anger 
sweeping  over  him  in  furious  gusts.  He  had  come  to 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

make  sport  of  his  victim  and  Lindsay  somehow  took  the 
upper  hand  at  once.  He  had  this  fellow  where  he  wanted 
him  at  last.  Yet  the  man's  soft  voice  still  carried  the 
note  of  easy  contempt.  If  the  Arizonan  was  afraid,  he 
gave  no  least  sign  of  it. 

"You'll  sing  another  tune  before  I'm  through  with 
you,"  the  prize-fighter  prophesied  savagely. 

The  Westerner  turned  away  and  swung  back  to  his 
upper  berth.  He  knew,  what  he  had  before  suspected, 
that  Durand  was  going  to  "frame"  him  if  he  could. 
That  information  gained,  the  man  no  longer  inter- 
ested him. 

Sullenly  Jerry  left.  There  was  no  profit  in  jeering 
at  Lindsay.  He  was  too  entirely  master  of  every  sit- 
uation that  confronted  him. 

Within  the  hour  Clay  was  wakened  from  sleep  by 
another  guard  with  word  that  he  was  wanted  at  the 
office  of  the  warden.  He  found  waiting  him  there  Bea- 
trice and  her  father.  The  girl  bloomed  in  that  dingy 
room  like  a  cactus  in  the  desert. 

She  came  toward  him  with  hands  extended,  in  her 
eyes  gifts  of  friendship  and  faith. 

"Oh,  Clay!  "she  cried. 

"Much  obliged  little  pardner."  Her  voice  went  to 
his  heart  like  water  to  the  thirsty  roots  of  prickly  pears. 
A  warm  glow  beat  through  his  veins.  The  doubts  that 
had  weighed  on  him  during  the  night  were  gone.  Bea- 
trice believed  in  him.  All  was  well  with  the  world. 

He  shook  hands  with  Whitford.  "Blamed  good  of 
you  to  come,  sir." 

"Why  wouldn't  we  come?"  demanded  the  mining 


846  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

man  bhmtly.  "We're  here  to  do  what  we  can  for 
you." 

Little  wells  of  tears  brimmed  over  Beatrice's  lids. 
"I've  been  so  worried." 

"Don't  you.  It'll  be  all  right."  Strangely  enough 
he  felt  now  that  it  would.  Her  coming  had  brought  rip- 
pling sunshine  into  a  drab  world. 

"I  won't  now.  I'm  going  to  get  evidence  for  you. 
Tell  us  all  about  it." 

"Why,  there  isn't  much  to  tell  that  you  haven't 
read  in  the  papers  probably.  He  came  a-shootin'  and 
was  hit  by  a  chair." 

"Was  it  you  that  hit  him?" 

"Would  n't  I  be  justified?"  he  asked  gently. 

"But  did  you?" 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  made  up  his  mind 
Cwiftly.  "Yes,"  he  told  her  gravely. 

She  winced.  "You  couldn't  help  it.  How  did  you  come 
to  be  there?" 

"I  just  dropped  in." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes." 

He  had  burned  the  bridges  behind  him  and  was  lying 
glibly.  Why  bring  Bromfield  into  it?  She  was  going  to 
marry  him  in  a  few  days.  If  her  fiance  was  man  enough 
to  come  forward  and  tell  the  truth  he  would  do  so 
anyhow.  It  was  up  to  him.  Clay  was  not  going  to  betray 
him  to  Beatrice. 

"The  paper  says  there  was  some  one  with  you." 

"Sho!  Reporters  sure  enough  have  lively  imagina- 
tions." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Johnnie  told  me  you  had  an  engagement  with  Mr% 
Bromfield." 

"Did  you  ever  know  Johnnie  get  anything  right?** 

**  And  Clarendon  says  he  was  with  you  at  Had- 
dock's." 

Clay  had  riot  been  prepared  for  this  cumulative  evi« 
dence.  He  gave  a  low  laugh  of  relief.  "I  'm  an  awful  pool 
liar.  So  Bromfield  says  he  was  with  me,  does  he?" 

"Yes." 

He  intended  to  wait  for  a  lead  before  showing  hia 
band.  "Then  you  know  all  about  it?"  he  asked  care* 
lessly. 

Their  eyes  were  on  each  other,  keen  and  watchful. 
She  knew  he  was  concealing  something  of  importance* 
He  had  meant  not  to  tell  her  that  Bromfield  had  been 
with  him.  Why?  To  protect  the  man  to  whom  she  was 
engaged.  She  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  still 
shielding  him. 

"Yes,  you're  a  poor  liar,  Clay,"  she  agreed.  "You 
stayed  to  keep  back  Collins  so  as  to  give  Clarendon  « 
chance  to  escape." 

"Did  I?" 

"Can  you  deny  it?  Clarendon  heard  the  shots  AS  he 
Was  running  downstairs." 

"He  told  you  that,  did  he?" 

"Yes." 

"That  ought  to  help  a  lot.  If  I  can  prove  Collins  was 
shootin'  at  me  I  can  plead  self-defense." 

** That's  what  it  was,  of  course." 

"Yes.  But  Durand  does  n't  mean  to  let  it  go  at  that. 
He  was  here  to  see  me  this  zuo'ninV  Clay  turned  t* 


£48  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

the  mining  man,  his  voice  low  but  incisive.  His  brain 
was  working  clear  and  fast.  "Mr,  Whitford,  I  have  a 
hunch  he's  going  to  destroy  the  evidence  that's  in 
my  favor.  There  must  be  two  bullet  holes  in  the  par- 
tition of  the  rear  room  where  Collins  was  killed.  See  if 
you  can't  find  those  bullet  holes  and  the  bullets  in  the 
wall  behind." 

"I '11  do  that,  Lindsay." 

"And  hire  me  a  good  lawyer.  Send  him  to  me.  I  won't 
use  a  smart  one  whose  business  is  to  help  crooks  escape. 
If  he  does  n't  believe  in  me,  I  don't  want  him.  I'll  have 
him  get  the  names  of  all  those  pulled  in  the  raid  and 
visit  them  to  see  if  he  can't  find  some  one  who  heard 
the  shots  or  saw  shooting.  Then  there's  the  gun.  Some 
one's  got  that  gun.  It's  up  to  us  to  learn  who." 

"That's  right." 

"Tim  Muldoon  will  do  anything  he  can  for  me. 
There's  a  girl  lives  with  his  mother.  Her  name's  Annie 
Millikan.  She  has  ways  of  finding  out  things.  Better  talk 
it  over  with  her  too.  We've  got  to  get  busy  in  a  hurry." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Whitford.  "We'll  do  that,  boy." 

"Oh,  Clay,  I'm  sure  it's  going  to  be  all  right!"  cried 
Beatrice,  in  a  glow  of  enthusiasm,  "We'll  give  all  our 
time.  We'll  get  evidence  to  show  the  truth.  And  we'll 
let  you  know  every  day  what  we  are  doing." 

"How  about  my  going  bail  for  you?"  asked  her 
father. 

Clay  shook  his  head.  "No  chance  just  yet.  Let's 
make  our  showing  at  the  coroner's  inquest.  I  '11  do  fine 
and  dandy  here  till  then." 

He  shook  hands  with  them  both  and  was  taken  back 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  2*9 

to  his  cell.  But  hope  was  in  his  heart  now.  He  knew 
his  friends  would  do  their  best  to  get  the  evidence  to 
free  him.  It  would  be  a  battle  royal  between  the  truth 
U.d  a  lie. 


CHAPTER  XXXIH 
BROMFIELD  MAKES  AN  OFFER 

A  YOUTH  with  a  face  like  a  fox  sidled  up  to  Durand  in 
the  hotel  lobby  and  whispered  in  his  ear.  Jerry  nodded 
curtly,  and  the  man  slipped  away  as  furtively  as  he  had 
come. 

Presently  the  ex-prize-fighter  got  up,  sauntered  to 
the  street,  and  hailed  a  taxi.  Twenty  minutes  later  he 
paid  the  driver,  turned  a  corner,  and  passed  into  an 
apartment  house  for  bachelors.  Ha  took  the  elevator  to 
the  third  floor  and  rang  an  electric  bell  at  a  door  which 
carried  the  name  "Mr.  Clarendon  Bromfield." 

From  the  man  who  came  to  the  door  Mr.  Bromfield's 
visitor  learned  that  he  was  not  well  and  could  receive  no 
callers. 

"Just  mention  the  Omnium  Club,  and  say  I'm  here 
on  very  important  business,"  said  Jerry  with  a  sour 
grin. 

The  reference  served  as  a  password.  Jerry  was  ad- 
mitted to  meet  a  host  quite  unable  to  control  his  alarm. 
At  sight  of  his  visitor  Bromfield  jumped  up  angrily. 
As  soon  as  his  man  had  gone  he  broke  out  in  a  subdued 
scream. 

"You  rotten  traitor!  Get  out  of  my  room,  or  I'll  call 
the  police." 

Durand  found  a  comfortable  chair,  drew  a  case  from 
his  pocket,  and  selected  a  cigar.  He  grinned  with  evil 
mirth. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  251 

"You  will,  eh?  Like  hell  you  will.  You're  hidin'  from 
the  cops  this  blessed  minute.  I  've  just  found  out  myself 
where  you  live." 

"You  took  my  money  and  threw  me  down.  You  hired 
a  gunman  to  kill  me." 

"Now,  what  would  I  do  that  for?  I  had  n't  a  thing  in 
the  world  against  you,  an'  I  have  n't  now." 

"  That  damned  ruffian  shot  at  me.  He  was  still  shoot- 
ing when  I  struck  him  with  the  chair,"  cried  Bromfield. 
his  voice  shaking. 

"He  didn't  know  it  was  you  —  mistook  you  for 
Lindsay  in  the  darkness." 

"My  God,  I  did  n't  mean  to  kill  him.  I  had  to  do 
something." 

"You  did  it  all  right." 

"I  told  you  there  was  n't  to  be  any  violence.  It  was 
explicitly  stated.  You  promised.  And  all  the  time  you 
were  planning  murder.  I'll  tell  all  I  know.  By  God,  I 
will." 

"Go  easy,  Mr.  Bromfield,"  snarled  Jerry.  "If  you 
do,  where  do  ye  think  you'll  get  off  at?" 

"I'll  go  to  the  police  and  tell  them  your  hired  gun- 
man was  shooting  at  us." 

"Will  you  now?  An'  I'll  have  plenty  of  good  wit- 
nesses to  swear  he  was  n't."  Durand  bared  his  teeth  in 
a  threat.  "That's  not  all  either.  I'll  tie  you  up  with 
the  rube  from  the  West  and  send  you  up  to  Sing  Sing 
as  accessory.  How'd  you  like  that?" 

"If  I  tell  the  truth  —  " 

"  You  '11  be  convicted  of  murder  in  place  of  him  and 
he'il  go  up  as  accessory.  I  don't  care  two  straws  how 


£53  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

it  is.  But  you'd  be  a  damned  fool.  I'll  say  that  for 
you." 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  an  innocent  man  suffer  in  my 
place.  It  would  n't  be  playing  the  game." 

Durand  leaned  forward  and  tapped  the  table  with 
his  finger-tips.  His  voice  rasped  like  a  file.  "You  can't 
save  him.  He's  goin'  to  get  it  right.  But  you  can  hurt 
yourself  a  hell  of  a  lot.  Get  out  of  the  country  and  stay 
out  till  it's  over  with.  That's  the  best  thing  you  can 
do.  Go  to  the  Hawaiian  Is'ands,  man.  That's  a  good 
healthy  climate  an'  the  hotel  cooking's  a  lot  better  than 
it  is  at  Sing  Sing." 

"I  can't  do  it,"  moaned  the  clubman.  "My  God, 
man,  if  it  ever  came  out  —  that  I'd  paid  you  monej 
to  —  to  —  ruin  his  reputation,  and  that  I'd  run  away 
when  I  could  have  saved  an  innocent  man  —  I  'd  be 
done  for.  I'd  be  kicked  out  of  every  club  I'm  in." 

"It  won't  ever  come  out  if  you're  not  here.  But  if 
you  force  my  hand  —  well,  that's  different."  Again 
Jerry's  grin  slit  his  colorless  face.  He  had  this  poor  devil 
where  he  wanted  him,  and  he  was  enjoying  himself. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do,  then?"  cried  Brom- 
field,  tiny  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  forehead. 

'"  You  '11  do  as  I  say  —  beat  it  outa  the  country  till  the 
thing's  over  with." 

"But  Lindsay  will  talk." 

"The  boob's  padlocked  his  mouth.  For  some  fool 
reason  he's  protectin'  you.  Get  out,  an'  you're  safe." 

Bromfield  sweated  blood  as  he  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  looking  for  a  way  out  of  his  dilemma.  He  had 
come  to  the  parting  of  the  road  again.  If  he  did  thif 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  £53 

thing  he  would  be  a  yellow  cur.  It  was  one  thing  to  de- 
stroy Lindsay's  influence  with  Beatrice  by  giving  her 
a  false  impression.  From  his  point  of  view  their  friend- 
ship was  pernicious  anyhow  and  ought  to  be  wiped  out. 
At  most  the  cattleman  would  have  gone  back  unhurt  to 
the  Arizona  desert  he  was  always  talking  about.  No- 
body there  would  care  about  what  had  happened  to 
him  in  New  York.  But  to  leave  him,  an  innocent  man, 
to  go  to  his  death  because  he  was  too  chivalrous  to  be- 
tray his  partner  in  an  adventure  —  this  was  something 
that  even  Bromfield's  atrophied  conscience  revolted  at. 
Clay  was  standing  by  him,  according  to  Durand's  story. 
The  news  of  it  lifted  a  weight  from  his  soul.  But  it  left 
him  too  under  a  stronger  moral  obligation  to  step  out 
and  face  the  music. 

The  clubman  made  the  only  decision  he  could,  and 
that  was  to  procrastinate,  to  put  off  making  any  choice 
for  the  present. 

"I'll  think  it  over.  Give  me  a  day  to  make  up  my 
mind,"  he  begged. 

Jerry  shrugged  his  heavy  shoulders.  He  knew  that 
every  hour  counted  in  his  favor,  would  make  it  more 
difficult  for  the  tortured  man  to  come  forward  and  tell 
the  truth.  "Sure.  Look  it  over  upside  and  down.  Don't 
hurry.  But,  man,  what's  there  to  think  about?  I  thought 
you  hated  this  guy  —  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him." 

"Not  that  way.  God,  no!  Durand,  I'll  give  you  any 
sum  in  reason  to  let  him  go  without  bringing  me  into 
it  You  can  arrange  it." 

Jerry  slammed  down  a  fist  heavily  on  the  table.  "I 
can,  but  I  won't.  Not  if  you  was  to  go  fifty-fifty  with 


*54  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

me  to  your  last  cent.  I'm  goin*  to  get  this  fellow.  See? 
I'm  goin*  to  get  him  good.  He'll  be  crawlin'  on  his  hands 
and  knees  to  me  before  I  'm  through  with  him.'* 

"What  good  will  that  do  you?  I'm  offering  you  cold 
cash  just  to  let  the  truth  get  out  —  that  Collins  was 
trying  to  kill  him  when  he  got  hit." 

"Nothin'  doin'.  I've  been  layin'  for  this  boob.  I've 
got  him  now.  I'm  goin'  to  turn  the  screws  on  and  listen 
to  him  holler." 

Bromfield's  valet  stepped  into  the  room.  "Mr.  and 
Miss  Whitford  to  see  you,  sir." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

BEATRICE  QUALIFIES  AS  A  SHERLOCK  HOLMES 

ANNIE  MILLIKAN  nodded  her  wise  little  head.  "Jerry's 
gonna  frame  him  if  he  can.  He's  laid  the  wirec  for  it. 
That's  a  lead  pipe." 

"Sure,"  agreed  Muldoon.  "I'll  bet  he's  been  busy  all 
flight  fixin'  up  his  story.  Some  poor  divvies  he'll  bully- 
rag into  swearin'  lies  an'  others  he'll  buy.  Trust  Jerry 
for  the  crooked  stuff." 

"'We've  got  to  get  the  truth,"  said  Beatrice  crisply, 
pulling  on  her  gloves.  "And  we  '11  do  i  t  too.  A  pack  of  lies 
can't  stand  against  four  of  us  all  looking  for  the  truth." 

Annie  looked  curiously  at  this  golden-haired  girl  with 
the  fine  rapture  of  untamed  youth,  so  delicate  and  yet 
So  silken  strong.  By  training  and  tradition  they  Were 
miles  apart,  yet  the  girl  who  had  lived  on  the  edg« 
of  the  underworld  recognized  a  certain  kinship.  She 
liked  the  thorough  way  this  young  woman  threw  herself 
into  the  business  of  the  day.  The  wireless  telegraphy  of 
the  eyes,  translated  through  the  medium  of  her  own 
en :otions,  told  her  that  no  matter  whose  ring  Beatrice 
Whitiord  was  wearing  Clay  Lindsay  held  her  happiness 
in  the  cup  of  his  strong  brown  hand. 

"You're  shoutin',  Miss."  Annie  rose  briskly.  "I'll 
get  busy  doin'  some  slew  thin'  myself.  I  liked  your  friend 
from  the  minute  he  stepped  through  —  from  the  minute. 
I  set  me  peepers  on  him.  He 's  one  man,  if  anybody  asks 
you.  I  'm  soitainly  for  him  till  the  clock  strikes  twelve* 


256  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

And  say,  listen!  Jerry's  liable  not  to  get  away  with  it, 
I'm  hep  to  one  thing.  The  gang's  sore  on  him.  He  rides, 
the  boys  too  hard.  Some  of  'em  will  sure  t'row  him  down 
hard  if  they  think  they'll  be  protected." 

"The  district  attorney  will  stand  by  us,"  said  Whit- 
ford.  "He  told  me  himself  Durand  was  a  menace  and 
that  his  days  as  boss  were  numbered.  Another  thing, 
Miss  Millikan.  If  you  need  to  spend  any  money  in  a 
legitimate  way,  I'm  here  to  foot  the  bills." 

Muldoon,  who  was  on  night  duty  this  month  and 
therefore  had  his  days  free,  guided  Whitford  and  his 
daughter  to  Maddock's.  As  they  reached  the  house  an 
express  wagon  was  being  driven  away.  Automatically 
the  license  number  registered  itself  in  Tim's  memory. 

The  policeman  took  a  key  from  his  pocket  and  un- 
locked the  door.  The  three  went  up  the  stairs  to  the 
deserted  gambling-hall  and  through  it  to  the  rear  room. 

"From  what  Lindsay  says  the  bullet  holes  ought  to 
be  about  as  high  as  his  arm  pits,"  said  Whitford. 

"'Slim'  must  'a'  been  standin'  about  here,"  guessed 
Muldoon,  illustrating  his  theory  by  taking  the  posi- 
tion he  meant.  "The  bullets  would  hit  the  partition 
close  to  the  center,  would  n't  they?" 

Beatrice  had  gone  straight  to  the  plank  wall.  "  They  'r« 
not  here,"  she  told  them. 

"Must  be.  According  to  Lindsay's  story  the  felloe 
was  aiming  straight  at  it." 

"Well,  they're  not  here.  See  for  yourself." 

She  was  right.  There  was  no  evidence  whatever  that 
any  bullets  had  passed  through  the  partition.  They  cov- 
ered every  inch  of  the  cross  wall  in  their  search. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  £57 

"Lindsay  must  have  been  mistaken,"  decided  Whit- 
ford,  hiding  his  keen  disappointment.  "This  man  Col- 
lins could  n't  have  been  firing  in  this  direction.  Of 
course  everything  was  confusion.  No  doubt  they  shifted 
round  in  the  dark  and  —  " 

He  stopped,  struck  by  an  odd  expression  on  the  face 
of  his  daughter.  She  had  stooped  and  picked  up  a  small 
fragment  of  shaving  from  the  floor.  Her  eyes  went  from 
it  to  a  plank  in  the  partition  and  then  back  to  the  thitt 
crisp  of  wood. 

"What  is  it,  honey?"  asked  Whitford. 

The  girl  turned  to  Muldoon,  alert  in  every  quivering 
muscle.  "That  express  wagon  —  the  one  leaving  the 
house  as  we  drove  up  —  Did  you  notice  it?" 

"Number  714,"  answered  Tim  promptly. 

"Can  you  have  it  stopped  and  the  man  arrested? 
Don't  you  see?  They've  rebuilt  this  partition.  They 
were  taking  away  in  that  wagon  the  planks  with  the 
bullet  holes." 

Muldoon  was  out  of  the  room  and  going  down  the 
stairs  before  she  had  finished  speaking.  It  was  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later  when  he  returned.  Beatrice  and  her 
father  were  not  to  be  seen. 

From  back  of  the  partition  came  an  eager,  vibrant 
voice.  "Is  that  you,  Mr.  Muldoon?  Come  here  quick. 
We've  found  one  of  the  bullets  in  the  wall." 

The  policeman  passed  out  of  the  door  through  which 
Bromfield  had  made  his  escape  and  found  another  small 
door  opening  from  the  passage.  It  took  him  into  the 
cubby-hole  of  a  room  in  which  were  the  wires  and  in- 
struments used  to  receive  news  of  the  races. 


£08  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"What  about  the  express  wagon?"  asked  Whit- 
ford. 

"We'll  get  it.  Word  is  out  for  those  on  duty  to  keep 
an  eye  open  for  it.  Where's  the  bullet?" 

Beatrice  pointed  it  out  to  him.  There  it  was,  safely 
embedded  in  the  plaster,  about  five  feet  from  the  ground. 

"Durand  was  n't  thorough  enough.  He  quit  too  soon," 
said  the  officer  with  a  grin.  "  Crooks  most  always  do  slip 
up  somewhere  and  leave  evidence  behind  them.  Yuh  'd 
think  Jerry  would  have  remembered  the  bullet  as  well 
as  the  bullet  hole." 

They  found  the  mark  of  the  second  bullet  too.  It 
had  struck  a  telephone  receiver  and  taken  a  chip  out 
of  it. 

They  measured  with  a  tape-line  the  distance  from  the 
floor  and  the  side  walls  to  the  place  where  each  bullet 
struck.  Tim  dug  out  the  bullet  they  had  found. 

They  were  back  in  the  front  room  again  when  a  huge 
figure  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  stood  there  block- 
ing it. 

"Whatta  youse  doin'  here?"  demanded  a  husky 
roice. 

Muldoon  nodded  a  greeting.  "'Lo,  Dave.  Just  lookin' 
around  to  see  the  scene  of  the  scrap.  How  about  yuh?" 

"Beat  it,"  ordered  Gorilla  Dave,  his  head  thrust  for- 
ward in  a  threat.  "Youse  got  no  business  here." 

"Friends  av  mine."  The  officer  indicated  the  young 
woman  and  her  father.  "They  wanted  to  see  where 
'Slim*  was  knocked  out.  So  I  showed  'em.  No  harm 
done." 

Dave  moved  to  one  side.  "Beat  it,"  he  ordered  again. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  259 

In  the  pocket  of  Muldoor.  was  a  request  of  the  dis- 
trict attorney  for  admission  to  the  house  for  the  party, 
with  an  O.K.  by  the  captain  of  police  in  the  precinct, 
but  Tim  did  not  show  it.  He  preferred  to  let  Dave  think 
that  he  had  been  breaking  the  rules  of  the  force  for  the 
sake  of  a  little  private  graft.  There  was  no  reason  what- 
ever for  warning  Durand  that  they  were  aware  of  the 
clever  trick  he  had  pulled  off  in  regard  to  the  partition. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
TWO  AND  TWO  MAKE  FOUR 

FROM  Maddock's  the  Whitfords  drove  straight  to  tho 
apartment  house  of  Clarendon  Bromfield.  For  the  third 
time  that  morning  the  clubman's  valet  found  himself 
overborne  by  the  insistence  of  visitors. 

"We're  coming  in,  you  know,"  the  owner  of  the  Bird 
Cage  told  him  in  answer  to  his  explanation  of  why  his 
master  could  not  be  seen.  "This  is  important  business 
and  we've  got  to  see  Bromfield." 
4  Yes,  sir,  but  he  said  —  ' 

''He'll  change  his  mind  when  he  knows  why  we're 
here."  Whitford  pushed  in  and  Beatrice  followed  him. 
From  the  adjoining  room  came  the  sound  of  voices. 

"I  thought  you  told  us  Mr.  Bromfield  had  sone  to 
sleep  and  the  doctor  said  he  was  n't  to  be  wakened,'* 
said  Beatrice  with  a  broad,  boyish  smile  at  the  man's 
discomfiture. 

"The  person  inside  would  n't  take  no,  Miss,  for  an 
answer." 

"He  was  like  us,  was  n't  he?  Did  he  give  his  name?" 
asked  the  young  woman. 

"No,  Miss.  Just  said  he  was  from  the  Omnium  Club." 

Whitford  and  his  daughter  exchanged  glances.  "Same 
business  we're  on.  Announce  us  and  we'll  go  right 
in." 

They  were  on  his  heels  when  he  gave  their  names. 

Bromfield  started  up,  too  late  to  prevent  their  en- 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  261 

trance.  He  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  uncertain  v.'hat 
to  do,  disregarding  his  fiancee's  glance  of  hostile  inquiry 
lifted  toward  the  other  guest. 

The  mining  man  forced  his  hand.  "Won't  you  intro- 
duce us,  CJarendon?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

Reluctantly  their  host  went  through  the  formula. 
He  was  extremely  uneasy.  There  was  material  for  an 
explosion  present  in  this  room  that  would  blow  him  sky- 
high  if  a  match  should  be  applied  to  it.  Let  Durand  get 
to  telling  what  he  knew  about  Clarendon  and  the  Whit- 
fords  would  never  speak  to  him  again.  They  migh  t  even 
spread  a  true  story  that  would  bar  every  house  and 
club  in  New  York  to  him. 

"We've  heard  of  Mr.  Durand,"  said  Beatrice 

Her  tone  challenged  the  attention  of  the  gang  loader. 
The  brave  eyes  flashed  defiance  straight  at  him.  A  pulse 
of  anger  was  throbbing  in  the  soft  round  throat. 

Inscrutably  he  watched  her.  It  was  his  habit  to  look 
hard  at  attractive  women.  "Most  people  have,"  he  ad- 
mitted. 

'Mr.  Lindsay  is  our  friend,"  she  said.  "We've  just 
come  from  seeing  him." 

The  man  to  whom  she  was  engaged  had  been  put 
through  so  many  flutters  of  fear  during  the  last  twelve 
hours  that  a  new  one  more  or  less  did  not  matter.  But 
he  was  still  not  shock-proof.  His  fingers  clutched  a  little 
tighter  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"W-whatdidhetellyou?" 

Beatrice  looked  into  his  eyes  and  read  in  them  once 
more  stark  fear.  Again  she  had  a  feeling  that  there  was 
something  about  the  whole  affair  she  had  not  yet  iatlr 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

omed  —  some  secret  that  Clay  and  Clarendon  and  per- 
haps this  captain  cf  thugs  knew. 

She  tried  to  read  what  he  was  hiding,  groped  in  her 
mind  for  the  key  tc  his  terror.  What  could  it  be  that  he 
was  afraid  Clay  had  told  her?  What  was  it  they  all  knew 
except  Lindsay's  friends?  And  why,  since  Clarendon  was 
trembling  lest  it  be  discovered,  should  the  Arizonan  too 
join  the  conspiracy  of  silence?  At  any  rate  she  would  not 
Uncover  her  hand. 

"He.  told  us  several  things,"  she  said  significantly. 
"'You've  got  to  make  open  confession,  Clary." 

The  ex-pugilist  chewed  his  cigar  and  looked  at 
her. 

"What  would  he  confess?  That  the  man  with  him 
murdered  Collins?" 

"That's  not  true,"  said  the  girl  quickly. 

"So  Lindsay's  your  friend,  eh?  Different  here,  Miss/* 
Jerry  pieced  together  what  the  clubman  had  told  him 
and  what  he  had  since  learned  about  her.  He  knew  that 
this  must  be  the  girl  to  whom  his  host  was  engaged, 
"How  about  you,  Bromfield?"  he  sneered. 

The  clubman  stiffened.  "I've  nothing  against  Mr. 
Lindsay." 

"  Thought  you  had." 

"Of  course  he  has  n't.  Why  should  he?"  asked  Bea- 
trice, backing  up  Clarendon. 

Durand  looked  at  her  with  a  bold  insolence  that  was 
an  insult.  His  eyes  moved  up  and  down  the  long,  slim 
curves  of  her  figure,  "I  expect  he  could  find  a  hand- 
iome  reason  if  he  looked  around  for  it,  Miss." 

The  girl's  father  clenched  his  fist.  A  flush  oC  aage* 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  2tJ3 

swept  his  ruddy  cheeks.  He  held  himself,  however,  to 
the  subject. 

"  You  forget,  Mr,  Durand,  that  Lindsay  was  his  guest 
last  night." 

Jerry's  laugh  was  a  contemptuous  jeer.  "That's  right. 
I  'd  forgot  that.  He  was  your  guest,  was  n't  he,  Brom- 
field?" 

"What's  the  good  of  discussing  it  here?"  asked  the 
tortured  host, 

"Not  a  bit,"  admitted  Whitford.  "Actions  talk,  not 
words.  Have  you  seen  the  police  yet,  Bromfield?" 

"N-not  yet." 

*' What's  he  gonna  see  the  police  about?'*  Jerry 
wanted  to  know,  his  chin  jutting  out. 

MTo  tell  them  that  he  saw  Collins  draw  a  gun  and 
heard  shots  fired,"  retorted  the  mining  man  instantly. 

"Not  what  he's  been  teUW  me.  He'll  not  pull  any 
such  story  —  not  unless  he  wants  to  put  himself  in  a 
cell  for  life." 

"Talk  sense.  You  can't  frighten  Bromfield.  He  knows 
that  V  foolishness." 

"Does  he?"  The  crook  turned  derisive  eyes  on  the 
victim  he  was  torturing. 

Certainly  the  society  man  did  not  look  a  picture  of 
confidence.  The  shadow  of  a  heavy  fear  hung  over  him. 

The  telephone  rang,  Bromfield's  trembling  fingers 
picked  up  the  transmitter.  He  listened  a  moment,  then 
turned  it  over  to  Beatrice. 

"For  you." 

Her  part  of  the  conversation  was  limited.  It  consisted 
of  the  word  "Yes"  repeated  at  intervals  and  a  con- 


264  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

eluding,  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad.  Thank  you."  Her  eyes  were 
sparkling  when  she  hung  up. 

"Good  news,  Dad,"  she  said.  "I'll  tell  you  later." 

Durand  laughed  brutally  as  he  rose.  "Good  news,  eh? 
Get  all  you  can.  You'll  need  it.  Take  that  from  me.  It's 
straight.  Your  friend's  in  trouble  up  to  the  neck."  He 
swaggered  to  the  door  and  turned.  "  Don't  forget,  Brom- 
field.  Keep  outa  this  or  you'll  be  sorry."  His  voice  was 
like  the  crack  of  a  trainer's  whip  to  animals  in  a  circus. 

For  once  Bromfield  did  not  jump  through  the  hoop. 
"Oh,  go  to  the  devil,"  he  said  in  irritation,  flushing 
angrily. 

"  Better  not  get  gay  with  me,"  advised  Durand  sourly. 

After  the  door  had  closed  on  him  there  was  a  momen- 
tary pause.  The  younger  man  spoke  awkwardly.  "You 
can  tell  me  now  what  it  was  Mr.  Lindsay  told  you." 

"We'd  like  to  know  for  sure  whether  you're  with  us 
or  with  Durand,"  said  Whitford  mildly.  "Of  course  we. 
know  the  answer  to  that.  You're  with  us.  But  we  want 
to  hear  you  say  it,  flat-foot." 

"Of  course  I'm  with  you.  That  is,  I'd  like  to  be.  But 
I  don't  want  to  get  into  trouble,  Mr.  Whitford.  Can  you 
blame  me  for  that?  " 

"You  wouldn't  get  into  trouble,"  argued  the  mine 
owner  impatiently.  "I  keep  telling  you  that." 

Beatrice,  watching  the  younger  man  closely,  saw  as 
in  a  flash  the  solution  of  this  mystery  —  the  explana- 
tion of  the  tangle  to  which  various  scattered  threads  had 
been  leading  her. 

"Are  you  sure  of  that,  Dad?" 

"How  could  he  be  hurt,  Bee?" 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  265 

The  girl  let  Bromfield  have  it  straight  from  the  shoul- 
der. "Because  Clay  did  n't  kill  that  man  Collins.  Clar- 
endon did  it." 

"My  God,  you  know!"  he  cried,  ashen-faced.  "He 
told  you." 

"No,  he  did  n't  tell  us.  For  some  reason  he's  pro- 
tecting you.  But  I  know  it  just  the  same.  You  did  it." 

"It  was  in  self-defense,"  he  pleaded. 

"Then  why  did  n't  you  say  so?  Why  did  you  let  Clay 
be  accused  instead  of  coming  forward  at  once?" 

"I  was  waiting  to  see  if  he  could  n't  show  he  was  in- 
nocent without  —  " 

"Without  getting  you  into  it.  You  wanted  to  be 
shielded  at  any  cost."  The  scorn  that  intolerant  youth 
has  for  moral  turpitude  rang  in  her  clear  voice. 

"I  thought  maybe  we  could  both  get  out  of  it  that 
way,"  he  explained  weakly. 

"Oh,  you  thought!  As  soon  as  you  saw  this  morning's 
paper  you  ought  to  have  hurried  to  the  police  station 
and  given  yourself  up." 

"I  was  ill,  I  keep  telling  you." 

"Your  man  could  telephone,  could  n't  he?  He  was  n't 
ill,  too,  was  he?" 

Whitford  interfered.  "Hold  on,  honey.  Don't  rub  it 
in.  Clarendon  was  a  bit  rattled.  That's  natural.  The 
question  is,  what's  he  going  to  do  now?" 

Their  host  groaned.  "Durand'll  see  I  go  to  the  chair 
—  and  I  only  struck  the  man  to  save  my  own  life.  I 
was  n't  trying  to  kill  the  fellow.  He  was  shooting  at  me, 
and  I  had  to  do  it." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  Whitford.  "We've  got  proof  of 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

that.  Lindsay  is  one  witness.  He  must  have  seen  it 
all.  I've  got  in  my  pocket  one  of  the  bullets  Collins 
shot.  That's  more  evidence.  Then — " 

Beatrice  broke  in  excitedly.  "Dad,  Mr.  Muldoon  just 
told  me  over  the  'phone  that  they've  got  the  express 
wagon.  The  plank  with  the  bullet  holes  was  in  it.  And 
the  driver  has  confessed  that  he  and  a  carpenter,  whose 
name  he  bad  given,  changed  the  partition  for  Durand." 

Whitford  gave  a  subdued  whoop.  "We  win.  That 
lets  you  out,  Clarendon,  The  question  now  is  n't 
whether  you  or  Clay  will  go  to  the  penitentiary,  but 
whether  Durand  will.  We  can  show  he 's  been  trying  to 
*tand  in  the  way  of  justice,  that  he's  been  cooking  up 
false  evidence." 

"Let 's  hurry !  Let 's  ^et  to  the  police  right  away ! "  the 
girl  cried,  her  eyes  shining  with  excitement.  "We  ought 
not  to  lose  a  minute.  We  can  get  Clay  out  in  time  to 
go  home  to  dinner  with  us." 

Bromfield  smiled  wanly.  He  came  to  time  as  gallantly 
as  he  could.  "All  right.  I'm  elected  to  take  his  place,  I 
*ee." 

"  Only  for  a  day  or  two,  Clarendon,"  said  the  older 
man.  "As  soon  as  we  can  get  together  a  coroner's  jury 
We'll  straighten  everything  out." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  clubman  lifelessly. 

It  was  running  through  his  mind  already  that  if  he 
should  be  freed  of  the  murder  charge,  he  would  only 
have  escaped  Scylla  to  go  to  wreck  on  Charybdis.  For 
it  was  a  twenty  to  one  bet  that  Jerry  would  go  to  Whit- 
ford  with  the  story  of  his  attempt  to  hire  the  gang 
leader  to  smirch  Lindsay's  reputation* 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
A  BOOMERANG 

IT  must  be  admitted  that  when  Bromfield  made  up  bia 
mind  to  clear  Lindsay  he  did  it  thoroughly.  His  (.'on- 
fession  to  the  police  was  quiet  and  businesslike.  He  ad- 
mitted responsibility  for  the  presence  of  the  Westerner 
at  the  Omnium  Club,  He  explained  that  his  guest  had 
neither  gambled  nor  taken  any  liquors,  that  he  had  come 
only  as  a  spectator  out  of  curiosity.  The  story  of  the 
killing  was  told  by  him  simply  and  clearly.  After  he  had 
struck  down  the  gunman,  he  had  done  a  bolt  down- 
stairs and  got  away  by  a  back  alley.  His  instinct  had 
been  to  escape  from  the  raid  and  from  the  consequences 
of  what  he  had  done,  but  of  course  he  could  not  let  any- 
body else  suffer  in  his  place.  So  he  had  come  to  give 
himself  up. 

The  late  afternoon  papers  carried  the  story  that  Clar- 
endon Bromfield,  well-known  man  about  town,  had  con- 
fessed to  having  killed  "Slim"  Collins  and  had  com- 
pletely exonerated  Lindsay.  It  was  expected  that  the 
latter  would  be  released  immediately. 

He  was.  That  evening  he  dined  at  the  home  of  the 
Whitfords.  The  mine  owner  had  wanted  to  go  on  the 
bond  of  Bromfield,  but  his  offer  had  been  rejected. 

"We'll  hear  what  the  coroner's  jury  has  to  say,"  the 
man  behind  the  desk  at  headquarters  had  decided. 
"It'll  not  hurt  him  to  rest  a  day  or  two  in  the  cooler." , 

After  dinner  the  committee  of  defense  met  in  the  Red 


868  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Room  and  discussed  ways  and  means.  Johnnie  and  his 
bride  were  present  because  it  would  have  been  cruel  to 
exclude  them,  but  for  the  most  part  they  were  silent 
members.  Tim  Muldoon  arrived  with  Annie  Millikan, 
both  of  them  somewhat  awed  by  the  atmosphere  of  the 
big  house  adjoining  the  Drive.  Each  of  them  brought 
a  piece  of  information  valuable  to  the  cause. 

The  man  in  charge  of  the  blotter  at  the  station  had 
told  Tim  that  from  a  dip  called  Fog  Coney,  one  of  those 
arrested  in  the  gambling-house  raid,  an  automatic  gun 
with  two  chambers  discharged  had  been  taken  and 
turned  in  by  those  who  searched  him.  It  had  required 
some  maneuvering  for  Tim  to  get  permission  to  see  Fog 
alone,  but  he  had  used  his  influence  on  the  force  and 
managed  this. 

Fog  was  a  sly  dog.  He  wanted  to  make  sure  on  which 
side  his  bread  was  buttered  before  he  became  communi- 
cative. At  first  he  had  been  willing  to  tell  exactly  noth- 
ing. He  had  already  been  seen  by  Durand,  and  he  had 
a  very  pronounced  respect  for  that  personage.  It  was 
not  until  he  had  become  convinced  that  Jerry's  star 
was  on  the  wane  that  he  had  "come  through"  with 
what  Muldoon  wanted.  Then  he  admitted  that  he 
had  picked  the  automatic  up  from  the  floor  where  Col- 
lins had  dropped  it  when  he  fell.  His  story  still  further 
corroborated  that  of  the  defense.  He  had  seen  "Slim'* 
fire  twice  before  he  was  struck  by  the  chair. 

Through  an  admirer  Annie  had  picked  up  a  lead  that 
might  develop  into  something  worth  while.  Her  friend 
had  told  her  that  Durand  had  made  a  fiat  offer  to  one 
of  the  dope  fiends  caught  in  the  raid  to  look  after  him 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  86d 

if  he  would  swear  that  "Slim"  had  not  drawn  a  gun. 
Though  the  story  had  not  come  at  first  hand,  she  be- 
lieved it  was  true,  and  thought  from  her  knowledge 
of  him  that  the  man  would  weaken  under  a  mild  third 
degree. 

Clay  summed  up  in  a  sentence  the  result  of  all  the 
evidence  they  had  collected.  "It's  not  any  longer  a 
question  of  whether  Bromfield  goes  to  prison,  but  of 
Durand.  The  fellow  has  sure  overplayed  his  hand." 

Before  twelve  hours  more  had  passed  Durand  dis- 
covered this  himself.  He  had  been  too  careless,  too  sure 
that  he  was  outside  of  and  beyond  the  law.  At  first  he 
had  laughed  contemptuously  at  the  advice  of  his  hench- 
men to  get  to  cover  before  it  was  too  late. 

"They  can't  touch  me,"  he  bragged.  "They  dare  n't." 

But  it  came  to  him  with  a  sickening  realization  that 
the  district  attorney  meant  business.  He  was  going  after 
him  just  as  though  he  were  an  ordinary  crook. 

Jerry  began  to  use  his  "pull."  There  reached  him 
presently  that  same  sinking  at  the  pit  of  the  stomach 
he  had  known  when  Clay  had  thrashed  him.  He  learned 
that  when  a  lawbreaker  is  going  strong,  friends  at  court 
who  are  under  obligations  to  him  are  a  bulwark  of 
strength,  but  when  one's  power  is  shaken  politicians 
prefer  to  take  no  risks.  No  news  spreads  more  rapidly 
than  that  of  the  impending  fall  of  a  chieftain.  The  word 
was  passing  among  the  wise  that  Jerry  Durand  was  to 
be  thrown  overboard. 

The  active  center  of  the  attack  upon  him  was  the 
group  around  Clay  Lindsay.  To  it  was  now  allied  the 
office  of  the  district  attorney  and  all  the  malcontent 


§70  THE  BIG-TCWN  HOUND-UP 

subordinates  of  the  underworld  who  had  endured  his 
domination  so  long  only  because  they  must.  The  cam- 
paign was  gathering  impetus  like  a  snowslide.  Soon  it 
Would  be  too  late  to  stop  it  even  if  he  could  call  cS  the 
friends  of  the  Westerner. 

Durand  tried  to  make  an  appointment  with  Whit- 
ford.  That  gentleman  declined  to  see  him.  Jerry  per- 
sisted. He  offered  to  meet  him  at  one  of  his  clubs.  He 
telephoned  to  the  house,  but  could  not  get  any  result 
more  satisfactory  than  the  cold  voice  of  a  servant  say- 
ing, "Mr.  Whitford  does  not  wish  to  talk  with  you, 
sir."  At  last  he  telegraphed. 

The  message  read : 

I'll  come  to  your  house  at  eight  this  evening.  Better  see 
me  for  Missie's  sake. 

It  Was  signed  by  Durand. 

When  Jerry  called  he  was  admitted* 

Whitford  met  him  with  chill  hostility.  He  held  the 
telegram  in  his  hand.  "What  does  this  message  mean?'* 
he  asked  bluntly* 

"Your  daughter's  engaged  to  Bromfield,  ain't  she?" 
demanded  the  ex-prize-fighter,  his  bulbous  eyes  full 
on  his  host. 

"'That's  our  business,  sir." 

"I  got  a  reason  for  asking.  She  is  or  she  ain't.  Which 
is  it?" 

"We'll  not  discuss  my  daughters  affairs." 

"All  right,  since  you're  so  damned  particular.  We'll 
discuss  Bromfield's.  I  warned  him  to  keep  liis  mouth 
shut  or  he'd  get  iato  trouble," 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  £71 

"He  was  released  from  prison  this  afternoon." 

"Did  I  say  anything  about  prison?"  Durand  asked. 
"There's  other  kinds  of  grief  beside  being  in  stir,  I've 
got  this  guy  right." 

"Just  what  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Durand?" 

"I  mean  that  he  hired  me  to  get  Lindsay  in  bad  with 
you  and  the  girl.  He  was  to  be  caught  at  the  Omnium 
Club  with  a  woman  when  the  police  raided  the  place, 
and  it  was  to  get  into  the  papers." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Whitford  promptly. 

"You  will.  I  had  a  dictagraph  in  the  room  when 
Bromfield  came  to  see  me.  You  can  hear  it  all  in  his  own 
voice." 

"But  there  was  n't  any  woman  with  Lindsay  at  Mad- 
dock's  when  the  raid  was  pulled  off." 

"Sure  there  was  n't.  I  threw  Bromfield  down.'* 

"You  arranged  to  have  Lindsay  killed  instead." 

"Forget  that  stuff.  The  point  is  that  if  you  don't  call 
off  the  district  attorney,  I  '11  tell  all  I  know  about  son- 
in-law  Brom6eld.  He'll  be  ruined  for  life." 

"To  hear  you  tell  it." 

"AH  right.  Ask  him." 

"I  shall." 

"Conspiracy  is  what  the  law  calls  it.  Maybe  he  can 
keep  outa  stir.  But  when  his  swell  friends  hear  it  they'll 
turn  their  backs  on  Bromfield.  You  know  it." 

"I'll  not  know  it  unless  Mr.  Bromfield  tells  me  so 
himself.  I  don't  care  anything  for  your  dictagraph.  I'm 
no  eavesdropper." 

"You  tell  him  what  he's  up  against  and  he'll  come 
through  all  right.  I'll  see  that  every  newspaper  in  New 


272  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

York  carries  the  story  if  you  don't  notify  me  to-day 
that  this  attack  on  me  is  off.  I'll  learn  you  silk  stock- 
ings you  can't  make  Jerry  Durand  the  goat." 

"You  can't  implicate  him  without  getting  yourself 
into  trouble  —  even  if  your  story  is  true,  and  I  still 
don't  believe  it." 

"You  believe  it  all  right,"  jeered  the  crook.  "And  the 
story  don't  hurt  me  a  bit.  I  pretended  to  fall  in  with  his 
plans,  but  I  did  n't  do  it.  The  results  show  that." 

"They  show  me  that  you  tried  to  do  murder  instead." 

"That's  all  bunk.  The  evidence  won't  prove  it." 

Whitford  announced  his  decision  sharply.  "If  you'll 
leave  me  your  telephone  number,  I'll  let  you  know 
later  in  the  day  what  we'll  do." 

He  had  told  Durand  that  he  did  not  believe  his  story. 
He  had  tried  to  reject  it  because  he  did  not  want  to  ac- 
cept it,  but  after  the  man  had  gone  and  he  thought  it 
over,  his  judgment  was  that  it  held  some  germ  of  truth. 
If  so,  he  was  bound  to  protect  Bromfield  as  far  as  he 
could.  No  matter  what  Clarendon  had  done,  he  could 
not  throw  overboard  to  the  sharks  the  man  who  was 
still  engaged  to  his  daughter.  He  might  not  like  him. 
In  point  of  fact  he  did  not.  But  he  had  to  stand  by  him 
till  he  was  out  of  his  trouble. 

Colin  Whitford  went  straight  to  his  daughter. 

"Honey,  this  man  Durand  has  just  brought  me  a 
story  about  Clarendon.  He  says  he  paid  him  to  get 
Clay  into  trouble  at  the  Omnium  Club  in  order  to  dis- 
credit him  with  us." 

"Oh,  Dad!" 

"I'm  going  to  see  Clarendon.  If  it's  true  I  don't  want 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  873 

you  to  see  him  again.  Authorize  me  to  break  the  engage- 
ment for  you." 

They  talked  it  over  for  a  few  minutes.  Beatrice  slipped 
the  engagement  ring  from  her  finger  and  gave  it  to  her 
father  with  a  sigh. 

"You  can't  do  wrong  without  paying  for  it,  Dad." 

"That 's  right.  Bromfield  - 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  Clarendon.  I'm  thinking  about 
me.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  dragged  in  the  dust,"  she  said 
wearily. 


ON  THE  CARPET 

THE  question  at  issue  was  not  whether  Beatrice  would 
break  with  her  fiance,  but  in  what  way  it  should  be  done. 
If  her  father  found  him  guilty  of  what  Durand  had  said, 
he  was  to  dismiss  him  brusquely;  if  not,  Beatrice  wanted 
to  disengage  herself  gently  and  with  contrition. 

Whit  ford  summoned  Bromfield  to  his  office  where  the 
personal  equation  would  be  less  pronounced.  He  put 
to  him  plainly  the  charge  made  by  Jerry  and  demanded 
an  answer. 

The  younger  man  was  between  the  devil  and  the  deep 
sea.  He  would  have  lied  cheerfully  if  that  would  have 
availed.  But  a  denial  of  the  truth  of  Durand's  allega- 
tions would  be  a  challenge  for  him  to  prove  his  story. 
He  would  take  it  to  the  papers  and  spread  it  broadcast. 
From  that  hour  Clarendon  Bromfield  would  be  an  out- 
cast in  the  city.  Society  would  repudiate  him.  His  clubs 
would  cast  him  out.  All  the  prestige  that  he  had  built 
up  by  a  lifetime  of  effort  would  be  swept  away. 

No  lie  could  save  him.  The  only  thing  he  could  do 
was  to  sugarcoat  the  truth.  He  set  about  making  out  a 
case  for  himself  as  skillfully  as  he  could. 

"  I  'm  a  man  of  the  world,  Mr.  Whitford,"  he  explained. 
"When  I  meet  an  ugly  fact  I  look  it  in  the  face.  This 
man  Lindsay  was  making  a  great  impression  on  you  and 
Bee.  Neither  of  you  seemed  able  quite  to  realize  his  — 
his  deficiencies,  let  us  say.  I  felt  myself  at  a  disadvan- 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  «75 

tage  with  him  because  he's  such  a  remarkably  virile 
young  man  and  he  constantly  reminded  you  both  of 
the  West  you  love.  It  seemed  fair  to  all  of  us  to  try 
him  out  —  to  find  out  whether  at  bottom  he  was  a  de- 
cent fellow  or  not.  So  I  laid  a  little  trap  to  find  out." 

Bromfield  was  sailing  easily  into  his  version  of  the 
affair.  It  was  the  suavest  interpretation  of  his  conduct 
that  he  had  been  able  to  prepare,  one  that  put  him  in 
the  role  of  a  fair-minded  man  looking  to  the  test  inter- 
ests of  all. 

"Not  the  way  Durand  tells  it,"  answered  the  miner 
bluntly.  "He  says  you  paid  him  a  thousand  dollars  to 
arrange  a  trap  to  catch  Lindsay." 

"Either  he  misunderstood  me  or  he's  distorting  the 
facts,"  claimed  the  clubman  with  an  assumption  of 
boldness. 

"That  ought  to  be  easy  to  prove.  We'll  make  an  ap- 
pointment with  him  for  this  afternoon  and  check  up  by 
the  dictagraph." 

Bromfield  laughed  uneasily.  "Is  that  necessary,  Mr. 
Whitford?  Surely  my  word  is  good.  I  have  the  honor 
to  tell  you  that  I  did  nothing  discreditable." 

"It  would  have  been  good  with  me  a  week  ago/*  re- 
plied the  Coloradoan  gravely.  "But  since  then  —  well, 
you  know  what's  happened  since  then.  I  don't  want  to 
hurt  your  feelings,  Clarendon,  but  I  may  as  well  say 
frankly  that  I  can't  accept  your  account  without  check- 
ing up  on  it.  That,  however,  isn't  quite  the  point. 
Durand  has  served  notice  that  unless  we  call  pff  the 
prosecution  of  him  he 's  going  to  ruin  you.  Are  you  sat- 
isfied to  have  us  tell  him  he  can  go  to  the  devil?" 


«76  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"I  would  n't  go  that  far."  Bromfield  felt  for  his  words 
carefully.  "Maybe  in  cold  type  what  I  said  might  be 
misunderstood.  I  would  n't  like  to  push  the  fellow  too 
far." 

Whitford  leaned  back  in  his  swivel  chair  and  looked 
steadily  at  the  man  to  whom  his  daughter  was  engaged. 
"I'm  going  to  the  bottom  of  this,  Bromfield.  That  fel- 
low Durand  ought  to  go  to  the  penitentiary.  We're 
gathering  the  evidence  to  send  him  there.  Now  he  tells 
me  he'll  drag  you  down  to  ruin  with  him  if  he  goes. 
Come  clean.  Can  he  do  it?" 

"Well,  I  would  n't  say  — " 

"Don't  evade,  Bromfield.  Yes  or  no.'* 

"I  suppose  he  can."  The  words  came  sulkily  after  a 
long  pause. 

"You  did  hire  him  to  destroy  Lindsay's  reputa- 
tion." 

"Lindsay  had  no  business  here  in  New  York.  He  was 
disturbing  Bee's  peace  of  mind.  I  wanted  to  get  rid  of 
him  and  send  him  home." 

"So  you  paid  a  crooked  scoundrel  who  hated  him  to 
murder  his  reputation." 

"That's  not  what  I  call  it,"  defended  the  clubman, 

"It  does  n't  matter  what  you  call  it.  The  fact  stands." 

"I  told  him  explicitly  —  again  and  again  —  that 
there  was  to  be  no  violence.  I  intended  only  to  show  him 
up.  I  had  a  right  to  do  it." 

Whitford  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 
He  felt  like  laying  hands  on  this  well-dressed  scamp  and 
throwing  him  out  of  the  office.  He  tasted  something  of 
his  daughter's  sense  of  degradation  at  ever  having  been 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  £77 

connected  with  a  man  of  so  little  character.  The  experi- 
ence was  a  bitterly  humiliating  one  to  him.  For  Bee  was, 
in  his  opinion,  the  cleanest,  truest  little  thoroughbred 
under  heaven.  The  only  questionable  thing  ht  bad 
ever  known  her  to  do  was  to  engage  herself  to  this 
man. 

Colin  canv  to  a  halt  in  front  of  the  other. 

"We've  got  to  protect  you,  no  matter  how  little  you 
deserve  it.  I  can't  have  Bee's  name  dragged  into  a".\  the 
papers  of  the  country.  The  case  against  Durand  will 
have  to  be  dropped.  He's  lost  his  power  anyhow  and 
he  '11  never  get  it  back." 

"Then  it  does  n't  matter  much  whether  he's  tried  o? 
not." 

That  phase  of  the  subject  Whitford  did  not  pursue. 
He  began  to  feel  in  his  vest  pocket  for  something. 

"Of  course  you  understand  that  we're  through  wilh 
you,  Bromfield.  Neither  Beatrice  nor  I  care  to  have  any- 
thing more  to  do  with  you." 

"I  don't  see  why,"  protested  Bromfield.  "As  a  man 
of  the  world  —  " 

"If  you  don't  see  the  reason  I'm  not  able  to  explain 
it  to  you."  Whitford's  fingers  found  what  they  were 
looking  for.  He  fished  a  ring  ircm  his  pocket  cud  put 
it  on  the  desk.  "Beatrice  asked  me  to  give  you  this." 

"I  don't  think  that's  fair.  If  she  wants  to  throw  me 
over  she  ought  to  tell  me  her  reasons  herself." 

"She's  telling  them  through  me.  I  don't  want  to  be 
more  explicit  unless  you  force  me." 

"Of  course  I'm  not  good  enough.  I  know  that.  No 
man 's  good  enough  for  a  good  woman.  But  I  'm  as  good 


S78  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROXJND-UP 

as  other  fellows.  We  don't  claim  to  be  angels.  New  Yorfc 
does  n't  sprout  wings." 

"I'm  not  going  to  argue  this  with  you.  And  I'm  not 
going  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of  you  beyond  saying  that 
we're  through  with  you.  The  less  said  about  it  the  bet- 
ter. Man,  don't  you  see  I  don't  want  to  have  any  more 
talk  about  it?  The  engagement  was  a  mistake  in  the  first 
place.  Bee  never  loved  you.  Even  if  you  'd  been  what  we 
thought  you,  it  wouldn't  have  done.  She's  lucky  to 
have  found  out  in  time." 

"Is  this  a  business  rupture,  too,  Mr.  Whitford?" 

"Just  as  you  say  about  that,  Bromfield.  As  an  in* 
vestor  in  the  Bird  Cage  you  're  entitled  to  the  same  con- 
sideration that  any  other  stockholder  is.  Since  you're 
the  second  largest  owner  you  Ve  a  right  to  recognition 
on  the  board  of  directors.  I'm  not  mixing  my  private 
affairs  with  business." 

"Good  of  you,  Mr.  \Wtford."  The  younger  man 
spoke  with  a  hint  of  gentle  sarcasm.  He  flicked  a  speck 
of  dirt  from  his  coat-sleeve  and  returned  to  the  order  of 
the  day.  "I  understand  then  that  you'll  drop  the  case 
against  Durand  on  condition  that  he'll  surrender  any- 
thing he  may  have  against  me  and  agree  to  keep  quiet.** 

"Yes.  I  think  I  can  speak  for  Lindsay.  So  far  most 
of  the  evidence  is  in  our  hands.  It  is  not  yet  enough  to 
convict  him.  We  can  probably  arrange  it  with  the  dis- 
trict attorney  to  have  the  thing  dropped.  You  can  make 
your  own  terms  with  Durand.  I'd  rather  not  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  it  myself." 

Bromfield  rose,  pulled  on  the  glove  he  had  removed, 
OOdded  good-bye  without  offering  to  shake  hands,  and 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  279 

sauntered  out  of  the  office.  There  was  a  look  on  his  face 
the  mining  man  did  not  like.  It  occurred  to  Whitford 
that  Clarendon,  now  stripped  of  self-respect  by  the 
knowledge  of  the  regard  in  which  they  held  him,  was 
in  a  position  to  strike  back  hard  if  he  cared  to  do  so.  The 
.nght  to  vote  the  proxies  of  the  small  stockholders  of 
the  Bird  Cage  Company  had  been  made  out  in  his  name 
at  the  request  of  the  president  of  the  corporation. 


CHAPTER  XXXVm 
A  CONVERSATION  ABOUT  STOCK 

THE  case  against  Durand  was  pigeon-holed  by  the 
trict  attorney  without  much  regret.  All  through  the 
underworld  where  his  influence  had  been  strong,  it  was 
known  that  Jerry  had  begged  off.  He  was  discredited 
among  his  following  and  was  politically  a  down-and- 
outer.  But  he  knew  too  much  to  permit  him  to  be 
dragged  into  court  safely.  With  his  back  to  the  wall  he 
might  tell  of  many  shady  transactions  implicating  prom- 
inent people.  There  were  strong  influences  which  did 
not  want  him  pressed  too  hard.  The  charge  remained 
on  the  docket,  but  it  was  set  back  from  term  to  term 
and  never  brought  to  trial. 

Colin  Whitford  found  his  attention  pretty  fully  ab- 
sorbed by  his  own  affairs.  Bromfield  had  opened  a  fight 
against  him  for  control  of  the  Bird  Cage  Company.  The 
mine  had  been  developed  by  the  Coloradoan  from  an 
unlikely  prospect  into  a  well-paying  concern.  It  was  the 
big  business  venture  of  his  life  and  he  took  a  strong 
personal  interest  in  running  it.  Now,  because  of  Brom- 
field's  intention  to  use  for  his  own  advantage  the  proxies 
made  out  in  his  name,  he  was  likely  to  lose  control.  With. 
Bromfield  in  charge  the  property  might  be  wrecked  be- 
fore he  could  be  ousted. 

"Dad's  worrying,"  Beatrice  told  Lindsay.  "He's 
afraid  he'll  lose  control  of  the  mine.  There's  a  fight 
on  against  him." 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  £81 

"What  for?  I  thought  yore  father  was  a  mighty  cony 
petent  operator.  Don't  the  stockholders  know  when 
they're  well  off?" 

She  looked  at  him  enigmatically.  "Some  one  he 
trusted  has  turned  out  a  traitor.  That  happens  occa- 
sionally in  business,  you  know." 

It  was  from  Colin  himself  that  Clay  learned  the  name 
of  the  traitor. 

"  It's  that  fellow  Bromfield,"  he  explained.  "He's  the 
secretary  arid  second  largest  stockholder  in  the  com- 
pany. The  annual  election  is  to  be  to-morrow  afternoon. 
lie 's  got  me  where  the  wool 's  short.  I  was  fool  enough 
to  ask  the  smaller  stockholders  to  make  out  their  prox- 
ies in  his  name.  At  that  time  he  was  hand  in  glove  with 
us.  Now  I  'in  up  against  it.  He 's  going  to  name  the  board 
of  directors  and  have  himself  made  president." 

Clay  ventured  on  thin  ice.  The  name  of  Bromfield 
had  not  been  mentioned  to  him  before  in  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours  by  either  Beatrice  or  her  father.  "Surelv 
Bromfield  would  n't  want  to  offend  you." 

"That's  exactly  what  he  would  want  to  do." 

"But  —  " 

"He's  got  his  reasons." 

"Is  n't  there  some  way  to  stop  him,  then?" 

"I've  been  getting  a  wrinkle  trying  to  figure  out  one. 
I  'd  certainly  be  in  your  debt  if  you  could  show  me  a  way." 

"When  is  the  election?" 

"At  three  o'clock." 

"Where?" 

"At  the  company  offices." 

"Perhaps  if  I  talked  with  Bromfield  —  * 


28*  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Whitford  laughed  shortly.  "I'd  talk  an  arm  off  him 
if  it  would  do  any  good.  But  it  won't.  He's  out  for  re- 
venge." 

Clay's  eyes  alighted  swiftly  on  the  older  man.  They 
asked  gravely  a  question  and  found  an  answer  that  set 
his  heart  singing.  Beatrice  had  broken  her  engagement 
with  Bromfield. 

"He  won't  do,  Clay.  He's  off  color."  Whitford  did  a 
bit  of  mental  acrobatics.  "  Why  do  you  suppose  he  took 
you  to  Maddock's?" 

Again  Lindsay '.3  appraising  gaze  rested  on  his  friend. 
"I've  never  worked  that  out  to  my  satisfaction.  It 
was  n't  the  kind  of  place  he  would  be  likely  to  go  for 
pleasure.  But  I  don't  think  he  'd  arranged  a  trap  for  me, 
if  that's  what  you  mean.  It  does  n't  look  reasonable  that 
he  would  want  me  killed." 

Whitford  told  him  all  he  knew  about  the  affair.  The 
story  told  him  banished  any  doubts  Clay  may  have  had 
about  a  certain  step  he  had  begun  during  the  last  few 
minutes  to  hold  in  consideration.  It  did  more.  It  hard- 
ened a  fugitive  impulse  to  a  resolution.  Bromfield  was 
fair  game  for  him. 

It  was  a  little  after  eleven  o'clock  next  morning  when 
the  cattleman  walked  into  an  apartment  house  for  bach- 
elors, took  the  elevator,  and  rang  the  bell  at  Bromfield's 
door. 

Clarendon,  fresh  from  the  hands  of  his  valet,  said  he 
was  glad  to  see  Lindsay,  but  did  not  look  it.  He  offered 
his  guest  a  choice  of  liquors  and  selected  for  himself  a 
dry  martini.  Cigars  and  cigarettes  were  within  reach  OB 
a  tabouret. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Clay  discovered  that  one  difficulty  he  had  expected 
to  meet  did  not  complicate  the  problem.  The  valet  had 
left  to  select  the  goods  for  half  a  dozen  custom-made 
shirts,  Bromfield  explained  apologetically,  apropos  of 
the  lack  of  service.  He  would  not  return  till  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

"I've  come  to  see  about  that  Bird  Cage  business, 
Mr.  Bromfield,"  his  visitor  explained.  "I've  been  millin* 
it  over  in  my  mind,  and  I  thought  I  'd  put  the  proposi- 
tion up  to  you  the  way  it  looks  to  me." 

Bromfield's  eyebrows  lifted.  His  face  asked  with  super- 
cilious politeness  what  the  devil  business  it  was  of  his. 

"Mr.  Whitford  has  put  in  twenty  years  of  his  life 
building  up  the  Bird  Cage  into  a  good  property.  It 's  a 
one-man  mine.  He  made  it  out  of  a  hole  in  the  ground, 
developed  it,  expanded  it,  gave  it  a  market  value.  He  'B 
always  protected  the  stockholders  and  played  the  game 
square  with  them.  Don't  it  look  like  he  ought  to  stay  ill 
control  of  it?" 

"Did  he  send  you  here  to  tell  me  that?" 

"No,  he  didn't.  But  he's  gettin'  along  in  years, 
Bromfield.  It  don't  look  hardly  right  to  me  for  you  to 
step  in  and  throw  him  out.  What  do  you  think  about  it, 
yourself?" 

The  clubman  flushed  with  anger.  "I  think  that  it's 
damned  impertinent  of  you  to  come  here  meddling  in 
my  business.  I  might  have  expected  it.  You've  always 
been  an  impertinent  meddler." 

"Mebbeso,"  agreed  Clay  serenely,  showing  no  sur- 
prise at  this  explosion.  "  But  I'm  here.  And  I  put  a  ques- 
tion. Shall  I  ask  it  again?" 


284  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"No  need.  I'm  going  to  take  what  the  law  allows 
me  —  what  I  and  my  friends  have  bought  and  paid  for 
in  the  open  market.  The  more  it  hurts  Whitford  the  bet- 
ter I'll  be  pleased,"  answered  Bromfield,  his  manner 
of  cynical  indifference  swept  away  by  gathering  rage. 
The  interference  of  this  "bounder"  filled  him  with  a 
passion  of  impotent  hate. 

"Is  that  quite  correct?  Did  you  buy  control  in  the 
market?  In  point  of  fact,  are  n't  you  holdin'  a  bunch  of 
proxies  because  Whitford  wrote  and  asked  the  stock- 
holders to  sign  them  for  you  to  vote?  What  you  intend 
doing  is  a  moral  fraud,  no  matter  what  its  legal  aspect 
is.  You  'd  be  swindling  the  very  stockholders  you  claim 
to  represent,  as  well  as  abusing  the  confidence  of  Whit- 
ford." 

"What  you  think  is  n't  of  the  least  importance  to  me, 
Mr.  Lindsay.  If  you  're  here  merely  to  offer  me  your  ad- 
vice, I  suppose  I  shall  now  have  regretfully  to  say  good- 
day."  The  New  Yorker  rose,  a  thin  lip  smile  scarcely 
veiling  his  anger  at  this  intruder  who  had  brought  his 
hopes  to  nothing. 

"I  reckon  I'll  not  hurry  off,  Mr.  Bromfield,"  Clay  re° 
plied  easily.  "You  might  think  I  was  mad  at  you.  I'll 
stick  around  awhile  and  talk  this  over." 

"Unfortunately  I  have  an  engagement,"  retorted  the 
other  icily. 

"When?" 

"I  really  think,  Mr.  Lindsay,  that  is  my  business." 

"I'm  makin'  it  mine,"  said  Clay  curtly. 

Bromfield  stared.  "I  beg  your  pardon?" 

**I  said  it  was  mine  too.  You  see  I  bought  a  coupla 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  28* 

chares  of  Bird  Cage  stock  yesterday.  I'd  hate  to  see 
Whitford  ousted  from  control.  I've  got  confidence  in 
him." 

"It's  your  privilege  to  vote  that  stock  this  after- 
noon. At  least  it  would  be  if  it  had  been  transferred  to 
you  on  the  books.  I'll  vote  my  stock  according  to  my 
own  views." 

"I  wonder,"  murmured  Clay  aloud. 

" What 's  that?"  snapped  Bromfield. 

"I  was  just  figurin'  on  what  would  happen  if  you  got 
sick  and  could  n't  attend  that  annual  meeting  this  after- 
noon," drawled  the  Westerner.  "I  reckon  mebbe  some 
of  the  stockholders  you've  got  lined  up  would  break 
away  and  join  Whitford." 

The  New  Yorker  felt  a  vague  alarm.  What  idea  did 
this  fellow  have  in  the  back  of  his  head.  Did  he  intend 
to  do  bodily  violence  to  him?  Without  any  delay  Brom- 
field reached  for  the  telephone. 

The  large  brown  hand  of  the  Westerner  closed  over 
his. 

"I'm  talkin'  to  you,  Mr.  Bromfield.  It's  not  polite 
for  you  to  start  'phoning,  not  even  to  the  police,  whilst 
we're  still  engaged  in  conversation." 

"Don't  you  try  to  interfere  with  me,"  said  the  man 
who  paid  the  telephone  bill.  "1*11  not  submit  to  such  an 
indignity." 

"I'm  not  the  only  one  that  interferes.  You  fixed  up 
quite  an  entertainment  for  me  the  other  night,  did  n't 
you?  Wouldn't  you  kinda  call  that  interferin'  some? 
I  sure  ought  to  comb  yore  hair  for  it." 

Bromfield  made  a  hasty  decision  to  get  out.  He  started 


«86  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

for  the  door.  Clay  traveled  in  that  direction  too.  They 
arrived  simultaneously.  Clarendon  backed  away.  Th« 
Arizonan  locked  the  door  and  pocketed  the  key. 

His  host  grew  weakly  violent.  From  Whitford  he  had 
heard  a  story  about  two  men  in  a  locked  room  that  did 
not  reassure  him  now.  One  of  the  men  had  been  this 
cattleman.  The  other  —  well,  he  had  suffered.  "Let  me 
out!  I'll  not  stand  this!  You  can't  bully  me!"  he  cried 
shrilly. 

"Don't  pull  yore  picket-pin,  Bromfield,"  advised 
Lindsay.  "I've  elected  myself  boss  of  the  rodeo.  What  I 
say  goes.  You'll  save  yorese'f  a  heap  of  worry  if  you 
make  up  yore  mind  to  that  right  away." 

"  What  do  you  want?  What  are  you  trying  to  do?  I  'm 
not  a  barroom  brawler  like  Durand.  I  don't  intend  to 
fight  with  you.'* 

"You've  ce'tainly  relieved  my  mind,"  murmured 
Clay  lazily.  "What's  yore  own  notion  of  what  I  ought 
to  do  to  you,  Bromfield?  You  invited  me  out  as  a  friend 
and  led  me  into  a  trap  after  you  had  fixed  it  up.  Would 
n't  a  first-class  thrashin*  with  a  hawsswhip  be  about 
right?" 

Bromfield  turned  pale.  "I've  got  a  weak  heart,"  he 
faltered. 

"I'll  say  you  have,"  agreed  Clay.  "It's  pumpin* 
water  in  place  of  blood  right  now,  I  '11  bet.  Did  you  ever 
have  a  real  honest-to-God  lickin'  when  you  was  a  boy?" 

The  New  Yorker  knew  he  was  helpless  before  this 
clear-eyed,  supple  athlete  who  walked  like  a  god  from 
Olympus.  One  can't  lap  up  half  a  dozen  highballs  a  day 
for  an  indeterminate  number  of  years  without  getting 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  287 

flabby,  nor  can  he  spend  himself  in  feeble  dissipations 
and  have  reserves  of  strength  to  call  upon  when  needed. 
The  tongue  went  dry  in  his  mouth.  He  began  to  swallow 
his  Adam's  apple. 

"I'm  not  well  to-day,"  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"Let 's  look  at  this  thing  from  all  sides,"  went  on  Clay 
cheerfully.  "If  we  decide  by  a  majority  of  the  voting 
stock  —  and  I  'm  carryin'  enough  proxies  so  that  I  've 
got  control  —  that  you  'd  ought  to  have  a  whalin',  why, 
o'  course,  there 's  nothin'  to  it  but  get  to  business  and 
make  a  thorough  job." 

"Maybe  I  did  n't  do  right  about  Haddock's." 

"No  mebbe  about  that.  You  acted  like  a  yellow 
hound." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  apologize." 

"I  don't  reckon  I  can  use  apologies.  I  might  make  a 
bargain  with  you." 

"I'll  be  glad  to  make  any  reasonable  bargain." 

"How  'd  this  do?  I'll  vote  my  stock  and  proxies  in  the 
Bromfield  Punishment  Company,  Limited,  against  the 
whalin',  and  you  vote  yore  V/JCK  and  proxies  in  the  Bird 
Cage  Company  to  return  ILIZ  'resent  board  and  direc- 
torate." 

"That's  coercion." 

"WeU.  so  it  is." 

"The  law  —  " 

"Did  you  go  hire  a  lawyer  for  an  opinion  before  you 
paid  Durand  to  do  me  up?" 

"You've  got  no  right  to  hold  me  a  prisoner  here  to 
help  Whitford." 

"All  right,  I  won't.  I'll  finish  my  business  with  yott 


£88  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

and  when  I  'm  through,  you  can  go  to  the  annual  meet-. 
in*  —  if  you  feel  up  to  travelin'  that  far." 

"I'll  give  you  a  thousand  dollars  to  let  me  alone." 

"That'd  be  a  thousand  and  fifty  you  had  given  me, 
would  n't  it?"  returned  Lindsay  gayly. 

Tears  of  vexation  stood  in  Bromfield's  eyes.  "All 
right.  Let  me  go.  I'll  be  fair  to  Whitford  and  arrange 
a  deal  with  him." 

"Get  the  stockholders  who 're  with  you  on  the  'phone 
and  tell  'em  to  vote  their  stock  as  Whitford  thinks  best. 
Get  Whitford  and  tell  him  the  fight's  off." 

"If  I  do,  will  you  let  me  go?" 

"If  you  don't,  we'll  return  to  the  previous  question  — 
the  annual  meeting  of  the  Bromfield  Punishment  Com- 
pany, Limited." 

Bromfield  got  busy  with  the  telephone. 

When  he  had  finished,  Clay  strolled  over  to  a  book- 
case, cast  his  eyes  over  the  shelves,  and  took  out  a  book. 
It  was  "David  Harum,"  He  found  an  easy-chair,  threw 
a  leg  over  one  arm,  and  presently  began  to  chuckle. 

"Are  you  going  to  keep  me  here  all  day?"  asked  his 
host  sulkily. 

"Only  till  about  four  o'clock.  We're  paired,  you  and 
me,  so  we'll  both  stay  away  from  the  election.  Why 
don't  you  pick  you  a  good  book  and  enjoy  yoreself? 
There's  a  lot  of  A  1  readin*  in  that  case  over  there.  It'll 
sure  improve  yore  mind." 

Clarendon  ground  his  teeth  impotently. 

His  guest  continued  to  grin  over  the  good  stories  of 
the  old  horse-trader.  When  he  closed  the  book  at  last, 
he  had  finished  it.  His  watch  told  him  that  it  was  twenty 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  289 

minutes  to  five.  Bromfield's  man  was  at  the  door  trying 
to  get  in.  He  met  Lindsay  going  out. 

"No,  I  can't  stay  to  tea  to-day,  Mr.  Bromfield,"  the 
Arizonan  was  saying,  a  gleam  of  mirth  in  his  eyes.  "No 
use  urging  me.  Honest,  I  Ve  really  got  to  be  going.  Had 
&  fine  time,  did  n't  we?  So  long." 

Bromfield  used  bad  language. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

IN  CENTRAL  PARK 

JOHNNIE  burst  into  the  kitchen  beaming.  "  We're  gonna 
p'int  for  the  hills,  Kitty.  Clay  he's  had  a  letter  callin* 
him  home." 

"When  are  you  going?" 

"Thursday.  Ain't  that  great?" 

She  nodded,  absently.  Her  mind  was  on  another  tack 
already.  "Johnnie,  I'm  going  to  ask  Miss  Whitford  here 
for  dinner  to-night." 

"Say,  you  ce'tainly  get  the  best  notions,  honeybug," 
he  shouted. 

"Do  you  think  she'll  come?" 

"Sure  she'll  come." 

"I'll  fix  up  the  bestest  dinner  ever  was,  and 
maybe  —  " 

Her  conclusion  wandered  off  into  the  realm  of  un- 
voiced hopes,  but  her  husband  knew  what  it  was  as  well 
as  if  she  had  phrased  it. 

When  Clay  came  home  that  evening  he  stopped  ab* 
ruptly  at  the  door.  The  lady  of  his  dreams  was  setting  the 
table  in  the  dining-room  and  chatting  gayly  with  an  in- 
visible Kitty  in  the  kitchen.  Johnnie  was  hovering  about 
her  explaining  some  snapshots  of  Clay  he  had  gathered. 

"Tha's  the  ol'  horn-toad  winnin*  the  ropin'  cham- 
pionship at  Tucson.  He  sure  stepped  some  that  day," 
the  Runt  boasted. 

The  delicate  fragrance  of  the  girl's  personality  went 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

to  Clay's  head  like  wine  as  he  stepped  forward  and  shoolc 
hands.  To  see  her  engaged  in  this  intimate  household 
task  at  his  own  table  quickened  his  pulse  and  sent  a 
glow  through  him. 

"You  did  n't  know  you  had  invited  me  to  dinner,  did 
you?"  she  said,  little  flags  a-flutter  in  her  cheeks. 

They  had  a  gay  dinner,  and  afterward  a  pleasant  hoar 
before  Clay  took  her  home. 

Neither  of  them  was  in  a  hurry.  They  walked  through 
Central  Park  in  the  kindly  darkness,  each  acutely  sen- 
sitive to  the  other's  presence. 

Her  gayety  and  piquancy  had  given  place  to  a  gentle 
shyness.  Clay  let  the  burden  of  conversation  fall  upon 
her.  He  knew  that  he  had  come  to  his  hour  of  hours  and 
his  soul  was  wrapped  in  gravity. 

She  had  never  before  known  a  man  like  him,  a  per- 
sonality so  pungent,  so  dynamic.  He  was  master  of  him- 
self. He  ran  a  clean  race.  None  of  his  energy  was  wasted 
in  futile  dissipation.  One  could  not  escape  from  his 
strength,  and  she  had  already  discovered  that  she  did 
not  want  to  escape  it.  If  she  gave  herself  to  him,  it 
might  be  for  her  happiness  or  it  might  not.  She  must 
take  her  chance  of  that.  But  it  had  come  to  her  that  a 
woman's  joy  is  to  follow  her  heart  —  and  her  heart  an- 
ewered  "Here"  when  he  called. 

She  too  sensed  what  was  coming,  and  the  sex  instinct 
in  her  was  on  tiptoe  in  flight.  She  was  throbbing  with 
excitement.  Her  whole  being  longed  to  hear  what  he  had 
to  tell  her.  Yet  she  dodged  for  a  way  of  escape.  Silences 
were  too  significant,  too  full-pulsed.  She  made  herself 
talk.  It  did  not  much  matter  about  what 


292  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Why  did  n't  you  tell  us  that  it  was  Mr.  Bromfield 
who  struck  down  that  man  Collins?  Why  did  you  let 
us  think  you  did  it?"  she  queried. 

"  Well,  folks  in  New  York  don't  know  me.  What  was 
the  use  of  gettin'  him  in  bad?" 

"You  know  that  was  n't  the  reason.  You  did  it  be- 
cause —  "  She  stopped  in  the  midst  of  the  sentence.  It 
had  occurred  to  her  that  this  subject  was  more  danger- 
ous even  than  silence. 

"I  did  it  because  he  was  the  man  you  were  goin'  to 
marry,'"  he  said. 

They  moved  side  by  side  through  the  shadows.  In  the 
faint  light  he  could  make  out  the  fine  line  of  her  exqui- 
site throat.  After  a  moment  she  spoke.  "You're  a  good 
friend,  Clay.  It  was  a  big  thing  to  do.  I  don't  know  any- 
body else  except  Dad  that  would  have  done  it  for  me." 

"You  don't  know  anybody  else  that  loves  you  as 
much  as  I  do." 

It  was  out  at  last,  quietly  and  without  any  dra- 
matics.  A  flash  of  soft  eyes  darted  at  him,  then  veiled 
the  shining  tenderness  beneath  long  lashes.  She  paced 
a  little  faster,  chin  up,  nerves  taut. 

"I've  had  an  attack  of  common  sense,"  he  went  on, 
and  in  his  voice  was  a  strength  both  audacious  and  pa- 
tient. "I  thought  at  first  I  coulu  n't  hope  to  win  you 
because  of  your  fortune  and  what  it  had  done  for  you. 
Even  when  I  knew  you  liked  me  I  felt  it  would  n*t 
be  fair  for  me  to  ask  you.  I  could  n't  offer  you  the  ad- 
vantages you'd  had.  But  I've  changed  my  mind.  I've 
been  watching  what  money  does  to  yore  friends.  It 
makes  them  soft.  They  flutter  around  like  butterflies 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  80S 

They're  paupers  —  a  good  many  of  them — because 
they  don't  pay  their  way.  A  man 's  a  tramp  if  he  does  n't 
saw  wood  for  his  breakfast.  I  don't  want  you  to  get  like 
that,  and  if  you  stay  here  long  enough  you  sure  will. 
It's  in  my  heart  that  if  you'll  come  with  me  we'll  live." 

In  the  darkness  she  made  a  rustling  movement  to- 
waid  him.  A  little  sob  welled  up  in  her  throat  as  hep 
hands  lifted  to  him.  "Oh,  Clay!  I've  fought  against  it. 
I  did  n't  want  to,  but  —  I  love  you.  Oh,  I  do  love  you!" 

He  took  her  lissom  young  body  in  his  arms.  Her  lips 
lifted  to  his. 

Presently  they  walked  forward  slowly.  Clay  had 
never  seen  her  more  lovely  and  radiant,  though  tears 
still  clung  to  the  outskirts  of  her  joy. 

"  We  're  going  to  live  —  oh,  every  hour!"  she  cried  to 
the  stars,  her  lover's  hand  in  hers. 


CHAPTER  XL 
CLAY  PLAYS  SECOND  FIDDLE 

JOHNNIE  felt  that  Kitty's  farewell  dinner  had  gone  very 
well.  It  was  her  first  essay  as  a  hostess,  and  all  of  them 
bad  enjoyed  themselves.  But,  so  far  as  he  could  see, 
it  had  not  achieved  the  results  for  which  they  had  been 
hoping. 

Clay  came  home  late  and  next  morn'ng  was  full  of 
plans  about  leaving.  He  discussed  the  packing  and  train 
schedules  and  affairs  at  the  B-in-a-Box.  But  of  Beatrice 
Whitford  he  made  not  even  a  casual  mention. 

"Two  more  days  and  we'll  hit  the  trail  for  good  old 
Tucson,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"Y'betcha,  by  jollies,"  agreed  his  bandy-legged 
shadow. 

None  the  less  Johnnie  was  distressed.  He  believed 
that  his  friend  was  concealing  an  aching  heart  beneath 
all  this  attention  to  impending  details.  As  a  Benedict 
he  considered  it  his  duty  to  help  the  rest  of  the  world 
get  married  too.  A  bachelor  was  a  boob.  He  did  n't 
know  what  was  best  for  him.  Same  way  with  a  girl.  Clay 
was  fond  of  Miss  Beatrice,  and  she  thought  a  heap  of 
him.  You  could  n't  fool  Johnnie.  No,  sirree!  Well,  then? 

Mooning  on  the  sad  plight  of  these  two  friends  who 
were  too  coy  or  too  perverse  to  know  what  was  best  for 
them,  Johnnie  suddenly  slapped  himself  a  whack  on  the 
thigh.  A  brilliant  idea  had  flashed  into  his  cranium.  It 
proceeded  to  grow  until  he  was  like  to  burst  with  it. 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

When  Lindsay  rose  from  breakfast  he  was  mysteri- 
ously beckoned  into  another  room.  Johnnie  outlined 
sketchily  and  with  a  good  deal  of  hesitation  what  he 
had  in  mind.  Clay's  eyes  danced  with  that  spark  of  mis- 
chief his  friends  had  learned  to  recognize  as  a  danger 
signal. 

"You're  some  sure-enough  wizard,  Johnnie,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "I  expect  you're  right  about  girls  not  \nowin' 
their  own  minds.  You've  had  more  experience  with 
women  than  I  have.  If  you  say  the  proper  thing  to  do 
is  to  abduct  Miss  Whitford  and  take  her  with  us, 
why  —  " 

"That's  whatever.  She  likes  you  a  heap  more  than 
she  lets  on  to  you.  O'  course  it  would  be  different  if  I 
was  n't  married,  but  Kitty  she  can  chaperoon  Miss  Bea- 
trice. It'll  be  all  accordin'  to  Hoyle." 

The  cattleman  gazed  at  the  puncher  admiringly. 
"Don't  rush  me  off  my  feet,  old-timer,"  he  said  gayly. 
"Gimme  a  coupla  hours  to  think  of  it,  and  I'll  let  you 
know  what  I'll  do.  This  is  real  sudden,  Johnnie.  You 
must  'a'  been  a  terror  with  the  ladies  when  you  was  a 
bachelor.  Me,  I  never  kidnaped  one  before." 

"Onct  in  a  while  you  got  to  play  like  you're  gonna 
treat  'em  rough,"  said  Mr.  Green  sagely,  blushing  a 
trifle  nevertheless. 

"All  right.  I'll  let  you  engineer  this  if  I  can  make  up 
my  mind  to  it  after  I've  milled  it  over.  I  can  see  you 
know  what  you're  doin'." 

When  Johnnie  returned  from  a  telephone  call  at  the 
office  two  hours  later,  Kitty  had  a  suspicion  he  was  up 
to  something.  He  bubbled  mystery  so  palpably  that  her 


298  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

curiosity  was  piqued.  But  the  puncher  for  once  was 
silent  as  a  clam.  He  did  not  intend  to  get  Kitty  into 
trouble  if  his  plan  miscarried.  Moreover,  he  had  an  in- 
tuition that  if  she  knew  what  was  under  way  she  would 
put  her  small,  competent  foot  through  the  middle  of  the 
project. 

The  conspirators  arranged  details.  Johnnie  was  the 
brains  f  f  the  kidnaping.  Clay  bought  the  tickets  and 
was  to  take  charge  of  the  prisoner  after  the  train  was 
reached.  They  decided  it  would  be  best  to  get  a  state- 
room for  the  girl. 

"  We  wantta  make  it  as  easy  as  we  can  for  her,"  said 
Johnnie.  "  O*  course  it's  all  for  her  own  good,  but  we  don't 
figure  to  treat  her  noways  but  like  the  princess  she  is." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Clay  humbly. 

According  to  programme,  carefully  arranged  by  John- 
nie, Beatrice  rode  down  to  the  train  with  him  and  Kitty 
in  their  taxicab.  She  went  on  board  for  the  final  good- 
byes and  chatted  with  them  in  their  section. 

The  chief  conspirator  was  as  easy  as  a  toad  in  a  hot 
skillet.  Now  that  it  had  come  down  to  the  actual  busi- 
ness of  taking  this  young  woman  with  them  against  her 
will,  he  began  to  weaken.  His  heart  acted  very  strangely, 
but  he  had  to  go  through  with  it. 

*  C-can  I  see  you  a  minute  in  the  next  car,  Miss  Bea- 
trice?" he  asked,  his  voice  quavering. 

Miss  Whitford  lifted  her  eyebrows,  but  otherwise  ex- 
pressed no  surprise. 

"Certainly,  Johnnie." 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  Miss  Whitford  about, 
Johnnie?"  his  spouse  asked.  There  were  times  when 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Kitty  ymstristed  Johnnie's  judgment.  She  foresaw  that 
he  mi^bt  occasionally  need  a  firm  hand. 

"Oh,  nothin'  much.  Tell  you  about  it  later,  honey." 
The  kidnaper  mopped  the  perspiration  from  Lis  fore- 
head. At  that  moment  he  wished  profoundly  that  this 
brilliant  idea  of  his  had  never  been  lorn. 

He  led  the  way  down  the  aisle  into  the  next  sleeper 
and  stopped  at  one  of  the  staterooms.  Shakily  he  opened 
the  door  and  stood  aside  for  her  to  pass  first. 

"You  want  me  to  go  in  here?"  she  asked. 

"Yes'm." 

Beatrice  stepped  in.  Johnnie  followed. 

Clay  rose  from  the  lounge  and  said,  "Glad  to  see  you, 
Miss  Whitford." 

"Did  you  bring  me  here  to  say  good-bye,  Johnnie?" 
asked  Beatrice. 

The  Runt's  tongue  stuck  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 
His  eyes  appealed  dumbly  to  Clay. 

"Better  explain  to  Miss  Whitford,"  said  Clay,  pass- 
ing the  buck. 

"It's  for  yore  good,  Miss  Beatrice,"  stammered  the 
villain  who  had  brought  her.  "We  —  we  —  I  —  I  done 
brought  you  here  to  travel  home  with  us." 

"You  — what?" 

Before  her  slender,  outraged  dignity  Johnnie  wilted. 
"Kitty,  she  —  she  can  chaperoon  you.  It's  all  right, 
ma'am.  I  —  we  —  I  did  n't  go  for  to  do  nothin'  that 
was  n't  proper.  We  thought  - 

"You  mean  that  you  brought  me  here  expecting  me 
to  go  along  with  you  — without  my  consent  —  with- 
out a  trunk  —  without  —  " 


398  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

Clay  took  charge  of  the  kidnaping.  "Johnnie,  if  1 
were  you  I  'd  light  a  shuck  back  to  the  other  car.  I  see 
I'll  have  to  treat  this  lady  rough  as  you  advised.'* 

Johnnie  wanted  to  expostulate,  to  deny  that  he  had 
ever  given  such  counsel,  to  advise  an  abandonment  of 
the  whole  project.  But  his  nerve  unexpectedly  failed 
him.  He  glanced  helplessly  at  Clay  and  fled. 

He  was  called  upon  the  carpet  immediately  on  joining 
Kitty. 

"What  are  you  up  to,  Johnnie?  I'm  not  going  to  have 
you  make  a  goose  of  yourself  if  I  can  help  it.  And  where's 
Mr.  Lindsay?  You  said  he'd  meet  us  here." 

"Clay,  he's  in  the  next  car." 

"You  took  Miss  Beatrice  in  there  to  say  good-bye  to 
him?" 

"No  —  she  —  she's  goin'  along  with  us." 

"Going  along  with  us?  What  do  you  mean,  Johnnie 
Green?" 

He  told  her  his  story,  not  at  all  cheerfully.  His  bold 
plan  looked  very  different  now  from  what  it  had  two 
days  before. 

Already  the  chant  of  the  wheels  had  begun.  The  train 
was  in  the  sub-Hudson  darkness  of  the  tunnel. 

Kitty  rose  with  decision.  "Well,  of  all  the  foolish- 
ness I  ever  heard,  Johnnie,  this  is  the  limit.  I'm  going 
right  to  that  poor  girl.  You've  spoiled  everything  be- 
tween you.  She'll  hate  Mr.  Lindsay  for  the  rest  of  her 
life.  How  could  he  be  so  stupid?" 

Her  husband  followed  her,  crestfallen.  He  wanted  to 
weep  with  chagrin. 

Beatrice  opened   the   door  of  the  stateroom.   She 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  299 

had  taken  off  her  hat  and  Clay  was  hanging  it  on  a 
hook. 

"Come  in,"  she  said  cordially,  but  faintly. 

Kitty  did  not  quite  understand.  The  atmosphere  was 
less  electric  than  she  had  expected.  She  stopped,  taken 
aback  at  certain  impressions  that  began  to  register 
themselves  on  her  brain. 

"Johnnie  was  tellin'  me  —  " 

"About  how  he  abducted  me.  Yes.  Was  n't  it  dear  of 
him?" 

"But  —  " 

"I've  decided  to  make  the  best  of  it  and  go  along." 

"I  — your  father,  Mr.  Whitford  — "  Kitty  bogged 
down. 

Beatrice  blushed.  Little  dimples  came  out  with  her 
gmile.  "I  think  I'd  better  let  Clay  explain." 

"We  were  married  two  days  ago,  Kitty." 

"What!"  shouted  the  Runt. 

"Wre  intended  to  ask  you  both  to  the  wedding,  but 
when  Johnnie  proposed  to  abduct  Miss  Whitford,  I 
thought  it  a  pity  not  to  let  him.  So  we  — 

Johnnie  fell  on  him  and  beat  him  with  both  fists. 
"You  daw-goned  ol'  scalawag!  I  never  will  help  you 
git  married  again!"  he  shouted  gleefully. 

Clay  sat  down  on  the  seat  and  gave  way  to  mirth.  He 
rocked  with  glee.  Beatrice  began  to  chuckle.  She,  too, 
yielded  to  laughter.  Kitty,  and  then  Johnnie,  added  to 
the  chorus. 

"Oh,  Johnnie  — Johnnie  — you'll  be  the  death  of 
me!"  cried  Clay.  "It'll  never  be  a  dull  old  world  so  long 
as  you  stay  a  bandit." 


TOO  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

"Did  you  really  advise  him  to  beat  me,  Johnnie?** 
asked  Beatrice  sweetly.  "I  never  would  have  guessed 
you  were  such  a  cave  man." 

Johnnie  flamed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "Now,  ma'am, 
if  you  're  gonna  believe  that  —  " 

Beatrice  repented  and  offered  him  her  hand. 

"We'll  not  believe  anything  of  you  that  is  n't  good, 
even  if  you  did  want  to  kidnap  me,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XLI 
THE  NEW  DAY 

THE  slapping  of  the  wind  against  the  tent  awakened 
Beatrice.  She  could  hear  it  soughing  gently  through  the 
branches  of  the  live  oaks.  An  outflung  arm  discovered 
Clay  missing. 

Presently  she  rose,  sleep  not  yet  brushed  fully  from 
her  eyes,  drew  the  tent  flaps  together  modestly  under 
her  chin,  and  looked  out  upon  a  world  which  swam  in 
the  enchanted  light  of  a  dawn  primeval.  The  eastern 
sky  was  faintly  pink  with  the  promise  of  a  coming  sun. 
The  sweet,  penetrating  lilt  of  the  lark  flung  greeting 
at  her. 

Her  questing  glance  found  Clay,  busy  over  the  mes- 
quite  fire  upon  which  he  was  cooking  breakfast.  She 
watched  him  move  about,  supple  and  light  and  strong, 
and  her  heart  lifted  with  sheer  joy  of  the  mate  she  had 
chosen.  He  was  such  a  man  among  men,  this  clear-eyed, 
bronzed  husband  of  a  week.  He  was  so  clean  and  simple 
and  satisfying.  As  she  closed  the  flaps  she  gave  a  deep 
sigh  of  content. 

Every  minute  till  she  joined  him  was  begrudged. 
For  Beatrice  had  learned  the  message  of  her  heart.  She 
knew  that  she  was  wholly  and  completely  in  love  with 
what  life  had  brought  her. 

The  hubbub  of  the  city  seemed  to  her  now  so  small 
and  so  petty.  Always  she  had  known  a  passionate  love 
of  things  fine  and  good.  But  civilization  had  thwarted 


802  THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP 

her  purposes,  belittled  her  expression  of  them.  Environ- 
ment had  driven  her  into  grooves  of  convention.  Here 
at  last  she  was  free. 

And  she  was  amazingly,  radiantly  happy.  What  did 
motor-cars  or  wine-suppers  or  Paris  gowns  matter?  They 
were  the  trappings  that  stressed  her  slavery.  Here  she 
moved  beside  her  mate  without  fear  or  doubt  in  a  world 
wonderful.  Eye  to  eye,  they  spoke  the  truth  to  each 
other  after  the  fashion  of  brave,  simple  souls. 

Glowing  from  the  ice-cold  bath  of  water  from  a  moun- 
tain stream,  she  stepped  down  the  slope  into  a  slant  of 
sunshine  to  join  Clay.  He  looked  up  from  the  fire  and 
waved  a  spoon  gayly  at  her.  For  he  too  was  as  jocund  as 
the  day  which  stood  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops. 
They  had  come  into  the  hills  to  spend  their  honeymoon 
alone  together,  and  life  spoke  to  him  in  accents  wholly 
joyous. 

The  wind  and  sun  caressed  her.  As  she  moved  toward 
him,  a  breath  of  the  morning  flung  the  gown  about  her 
BO  that  ea.ch  step  modeled  anew  the  slender  limbs. 

Her  husband  watched  the  girl  streaming  down  the 
slope.  Love  swift  as  old  wine  flooded  his  veins.  He  rose, 
caught  her  to  him,  and  looked  down  into  the  deep,  still 
eyes  that  were  pools  of  happiness. 

"Are  you  glad  —  glad  all  through,  sweetheart?*'  he 
demanded. 

A  little  laugh  welled  from  her  throat.  She  gave  him  a 
tender,  mocking  smile. 

"I  hope  heaven's  like  this,"  she  whispered. 

"You  don't  regret  New  York  —  not  a  single,  hidden 
longing  for  it  'way  down  deep  in  yore  heart?" 


THE  BIG-TOWN  ROUND-UP  303 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  always  wanted  to  be  rescued 
from  the  environment  that  was  stifling  me,  but  I  did  n't 
know  a  way  of  escape  till  you  came,"  she  said. 

"Then  you  knew  it?" 

"From  the  moment  I  saw  you  tie  the  janitor  to  the 
hitching-post.  You  remember  I  was  waiting  to  go  riding 
with  Mr.  Bromfield.  Well,  I  was  bored  to  death  with 
correct  clothes  and  manners  and  thinking.  I  knew  just 
what  he  would  say  to  me  and  how  he  would  say  it  and 
what  I  would  answer.  Then  you  walked  into  the  picture 
and  took  me  back  to  nature." 

"It  was  the  hitching-post  that  did  it,  then?" 

"The  hitching-post  began  it,  anyhow."  She  slipped 
her  arms  around  his  neck  and  held  him  fast.  "Oh,  Clay, 
is  n't  it  just  too  good  to  be  true?" 

A  ball  of  fire  pushed  up  into  the  crotch  between  two 
mountain-peaks  and  found  them  like  a  searchlight,  fill- 
ing their  little  valley  with  a  golden  glow. 

The  new  day  summoned  them  to  labor  and  play  and 
laughter,  perhaps  to  tears  and  sorrow  too.  But  the 
joy  of  it  was  that  the  call  came  to  them  both.  They 
moved  forward  to  life  together. 


THE  END 


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